


just keep listening

by abovetheruins



Category: American Idol RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-30
Updated: 2015-03-30
Packaged: 2018-03-20 10:24:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 35,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3646776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abovetheruins/pseuds/abovetheruins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>David Archuleta is overworked and overwhelmed, feeling lost in the midst of his hectic tour. Needing a break, he ducks out of his hotel room one night and wanders into a Missouri bar, where he strikes up an unexpected friendship with David Cook, the charming and charismatic bartender. Archie-centric.</p>
            </blockquote>





	just keep listening

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rajkumari905](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rajkumari905/gifts).



> It took me three months and over 30,000 words, but this beast of a fic is finally completed! For Pri ❤️️

The bar is called  _Dublin’s_.  
  
It’s within a few blocks of David’s hotel, and, according to the sign posted on the window out front, it’s open until two a.m every night. It’s not too crowded from what little David can see of the inside, just a few people sitting at small round tables, the lights dim and welcoming, hazy wisps of smoke trailing from a group of patrons by the window, cigarettes dangling from their fingers as they talk. A glance at his watch shows David that it’s ten minutes past eleven. He’s supposed to be in bed.  
  
He adjusts his hood, pulling it down so that it hides his face a little better. He doesn’t think he’ll be recognized – this doesn’t really look like the type of crowd that would listen to his music – but he’s still a little paranoid, as if his manager or one of his band mates will suddenly realize he’s not in his room and come looking for him.  
  
But no, everyone had been exhausted after the show, splitting ways after taking the elevator to their floor with half mumbled goodnights and nary a backwards glance. No one would come looking for him, not as long as he made it back before his seven a.m wake-up call.  
  
It’s cold in Missouri, the ground dusted with fine white powder, and though his hoodie is thick and warm David shivers, his teeth chattering. Someone bumps into him on their way past the bar, biting out a short, “Watch it!” and David flinches away, mumbling an apology. He’s starting to garner looks from other passerby, standing unmoving out in the cold, and as attention of any sort is just about the last thing he wants, David takes a deep breath and ducks inside the bar, his converse slipping a little on the slick sidewalk.  
  
A burst of warm air hits him as soon as he steps inside, the heat a relief against his chilled skin. A few people glance up at his arrival; David holds his breath, waiting, but everyone returns to their conversations without a second glance, and the tension bleeds out of his shoulders.  
  
There are plenty of empty tables, but David bypasses them and heads to the bar, sliding onto one of the tall stools in the corner. There’s a woman and a man sitting a few seats down conversing in low tones, but David can’t hear what they’re saying. The woman is dark-haired and smiling, the man gesturing wildly as he talks and the expression on his face soft and affectionate. They look happy. David averts his gaze, plucking at the hem of his hoodie, and wonders what he’s doing here.  
  
“Can I get you a drink?”  
  
David blinks owlishly at the man addressing him, taking in his easy smile and messy auburn hair at a glance. “Huh?”  
  
“A drink,” the guy repeats, pointing at the row of bottles lined up behind the bar. David notices his nails are painted black, the polish smooth and a little chipped in places. “Although… “ Hazel eyes give him a quick once-over, and David fights the urge to shrink back into himself. “Are you actually old enough to drink, because – ?”  
  
“I’m twenty-four,” David says hotly, and then quickly backtracks, his face flushing. “Sorry, um. I just – “  
  
The guy holds up his hands. “Hey, no harm done.” If David didn’t know any better, he’d say the older man was amused. “So, about that drink?”  
  
“Oh, um. Just a soda, please.”  
  
The man smiles, and David finds himself relaxing a little. “Sure thing.”  
  
He’s left alone after that; the bartender slides his soda over to him on a small white napkin with a chipper “Here you go!” and then attends to the other patrons. A few more people come in during the next half hour, including a noisy group of girls who take the table in the corner, and David sips quietly at his drink, watching.  
  
It’s not often that he’s able to do this, just sit and take in the atmosphere. The past few months have been a blur of interviews and appearances and tour preparation; there’s a bone deep exhaustion that hasn’t left him since that first tour stop nearly a month ago. Longer, still, if he really thinks about it, maybe even since the moment he returned from his mission almost a year ago. He’d spent the entire summer working tirelessly on the new album, and he’d kept hoping, after all of the tracks were laid and all of the negotiations and release dates finalized, that he would be able to  _breathe_ , to spend some time at home, maybe.  
  
But his manager had been pushing for him to start performing again, the label wanted him out there, promoting the new album. The fans were clamoring for him, they said, and they wanted to use the momentum of his return to their advantage. It would just be a small tour, just a few cities, but a few had turned into a lot, and he was so  _tired_ , and a little lonely, and he’d been feeling off for so long, and a little trapped, which didn’t make sense at all.  
  
He’d been able to spend the holidays with his family, Christmas and his birthday, but the new year had seen him back on the road, and he just… he needs some time to himself, away from screaming fans and demanding agents and the record label breathing down his neck. He needs a  _break_ , and if a random bar in Missouri in the middle of the night is the only place he can think to get one, then so be it.  
  
Because tomorrow they’ll be off to the next city, and then another and another, and the road looms long and lonely in front of him, even with his band mates with him every step of the way.  
  
“You know, usually I would offer something a little stronger for someone with as long a face as yours.”  
  
David jumps, not having noticed the bartender’s approach. “Uh, what?”  
  
The guy leans against the counter, the tattoos revealed by his short sleeves standing out in stark relief. David finds himself studying the script on his arm without meaning too, though he can’t tell what it says. “You look down,” the man says. “Usually I’m not one to pry – and feel free to tell me to fuck off, by the way – but you look like you could use an ear.”  
  
David stifles a slightly hysterical giggle – him telling anyone to “fuck off” is so laughable a notion he can’t even imagine it. “I – I’m fine, really.”  
  
The bartender arches a brow. “Uh huh, you know, that was  _almost_  convincing, but.”  
  
“It’s… it’s stupid.” David doesn’t know why he’s actually participating in this conversation; he should probably just leave before this guy starts prying even more, go back to his hotel and catch up on all of the sleep he’s been missing lately. But – well. The bartender’s smile is really nice, and friendly, and he seems genuinely interested in what David has to say, something that David hasn’t really felt from anyone in a depressingly long time.  
  
“Now, I find that hard to believe,” the bartender says. He slaps the countertop with the palm of his hand, making David jump. “How about this? We’ll trade. I’ll tell you a bit about myself first.” He holds out a hand. “David Cook, at your service. Professional comedian, amateur rockstar, and owner of this fine establishment.”  
  
“Oh, um.” David hastily slips his hand into the bartender’s – David’s, apparently? – and shakes it, noting the brush of calluses against his skin before they pull away. “I’m David, too? Uh – “ He hesitates for a moment, nearly fumbling over his last name. “David Archuleta.” He holds his breath for a split second, waiting –  
  
But the bartender only shrugs his shoulders, and his easy smile doesn’t falter when he says, “Oh, well, just call me Cook, then. Everybody else does.”  
  
  
  
Once Cook makes it obvious he doesn’t actually know who David is, it’s surprisingly easy to talk to him. David doesn’t have to worry if the older man is being sincere, if he’s smiling because he’s actually interested in what David has to say or just going along with him because he’s a celebrity. It’s nice, more than nice, to be able to relax and settle into the conversation without worrying about a million little things: if he’s rambling too much, if he’s being watched by paparazzi, if he’s doing anything that might hurt his image – all of the stupid, ridiculous things that he’s been taught to watch out for since the whirlwind of  _American Idol_  first made him into a household name.  
  
“Okay, tell me you haven’t heard this one,” Cook starts, throwing the rag he’d just been using to wipe down David’s corner of the bar over his shoulder. “So, a sandwich walks into a bar… “  
  
David’s already hiding a soft huff of laughter in the palm of his hand. Cook’s jokes – which he’s been regaling David with for the past twenty minutes or so, and which have steadily gotten worse the longer they’ve gone on – are never really funny so much as they’re, um, kind of awful? But Cook’s so enthusiastic when he tells them, and if he finds one particularly funny he’ll barely be able to get the punchline out before he’s laughing into his folded arms. David finds it strangely endearing for some reason.  
  
Cook’s barely holding it in now, David can tell. His lips keep twitching like he’s fighting hard not to laugh.  
  
“The bartender takes one look at him and says – are you ready? – sorry, sir, we don’t serve food here.”  
  
And then Cook’s off again, leaning against the cabinet of expensive liquors at the back of the bar as he laughs, his eyes scrunched up and his whole body shaking with the force of his mirth. He looks younger when he laughs, David finds himself thinking, and blinks against the sudden rush of, well,  _something_ , that settles in his chest at the sight.  
  
The joke’s not even all that funny, yet David finds himself giggling anyway, if only at Cook’s reaction. The bartender’s nearly bent double at this point, bracing his hands on his knees as the last of his laughter dies away.  
  
“How do you know so many of those?” David asks, resting his chin on his palm as Cook gets himself under control.  
  
Someone calls for a beer further down the bar, and Cook winks at David as he moves to grab a bottle. “Hey,” he calls over his shoulder. “That’s top secret information, David.”  
  
Cook, David is quickly learning, is a little ridiculous. It’s hard to resist smiling at the man’s antics, though, not that David tries very hard. He hides the curve of his grin by closing his lips around his straw, sipping at his drink as he watches Cook check on the other scattered patrons at the bar. He stops to talk to each of them, even after serving them their drinks, and David envies the ease of his smile, the way even complete strangers seem comfortable in his presence.  
  
He averts his gaze as Cook returns, feeling inexplicably pleased that he’s actually seeking out David’s company again, even with all of the other bar-goers around them – the pretty blonde in the corner, the charming couple trading whispered conversation a few stools down, the older man with tattoos swirling up both arms a little further down, all infinitely more interesting than David.  
  
It’s a nice feeling, to be sure, but also a little nerve wracking? He’s used to being the center of attention, used to being under the scrutiny of hundreds (sometimes even thousands) of people at a time, but he’s never been completely comfortable with it, never liked being on the receiving end of such undivided focus.  
  
It’s easier when he’s with his family, or his friends, people he loves, people he  _knows_ ; he’s at ease then, more comfortable in his own skin.  
  
It’s strange to feel that sense of ease around Cook, around this stranger, but David does. Not enough to talk about what he does for a living, of course, and it’s a small thing, but. It’s something.  
  
“Hey.” Cook’s voice draws him from his thoughts, and David tilts his head in acknowledgement as the bartender folds his arms atop the counter, leaning toward him.  
  
“You’re not from around here, are you?” he asks, and at David’s slightly startled look, amends this with, “I think I’d remember seeing you around, if you were.”  
  
For some reason that admission makes David blush; he adverts his eyes, sipping from his drink to quench his throat, which has gone a little dry. “Um, no, I’m not. Just passing through, to Illinois.” It wasn’t a lie, exactly. They  _were_  leaving in the morning, en route to Chicago, the next stop on the tour.  
  
“And you decided to spend your last night in town at  _Dublin’s_? I’m flattered.”  
  
David opens his mouth to explain that he’d actually just ducked into the first uncrowded place he’d come across, but he stops when he notices the glint in Cook’s eyes, realizing with a start that the man’s joking with him. It surprises a laugh out of him, a little loud amid the quiet hum of the other conversations happening around them, but Cook doesn’t look annoyed by it, or put off. He actually looks pleasantly surprised, and the easy curve of his smile makes David feel a little warm.  
  
“So, you own this place?” he asks, not at all desperately, unwilling to analyze that particular feeling any time soon.  
  
“Mm hmm. Well, me and a few friends. It’s our ‘side baby.’” At David’s confused look, he laughs. “It’s actually – see, me and the other guys that own this place are in a band together. We’ve been at it for a few years, you know, trying to get our music out there, but it’s hasn’t exactly been ah, a lucrative pursuit. Not for the first couple of years, anyway. And since we needed a steady income while we worked on music, we all pooled our funds and went in on this place together.”  
  
“Oh, what do you do?” David can’t hide the enthusiasm in his voice. He’s always loved talking about music and meeting others who share that same passion. “In your band, I mean?”  
  
He can tell by the scope of Cook’s smile that this is a subject he loves as well.  
  
“I play guitar,” he answers, and ah, that explained the calluses. “And I sing.”  
  
David blurts out, “Oh, me too!” before he can think to censor himself, quickly stuttering out, “Um, I mean. I’ve always loved singing?” and hoping Cook doesn’t chase that thread of conversation any farther.  
  
He needn’t have worried, though. All Cook does is grin a little cheekily at him and nod his head, as if David were simply confirming something he already knew. “See, I knew I liked you for a reason,” he says, and David ducks his head to hide the curve of his smile, feeling shy for some reason he can’t place.  
  
“Um, thanks?” he mumbles, and feels relieved when Cook launches into a story about his bandmates that has David nearly slumped against the bar in laughter, his momentary burst of sheepishness all but forgotten.  
  
  
  
They’re having an animated discussion about their favorite bands, Cook lamenting David’s “proper lack of classic rock knowledge,” as he puts it, when Cook glances at the wall clock hanging over the bar and whistles.  
  
“Damn, it’s already that late?” he says, and David glances up, his eyes widening as he sees how much time has passed; it’s almost two o’clock in the morning, meaning he’s been at the bar for nearly three hours. It’s mostly deserted by now, the people at the last occupied table in the midst of slipping into their coats and heading toward the front door. A blast of cold air filters in through the bar when they leave, and David and Cook are left on their own.  
  
“Oh gosh.” David checks his cell, which until then had sat untouched and unnoticed in the pocket of his hoodie, and breathes a sigh of relief when he sees that no one’s tried to contact him.  
  
“You have to go?” Cook asks, and despite the easy curve of his grin David’s doesn’t think he’s imagining the disappointment in his voice. He… doesn’t really know what to think of that, honestly, but he shares the sentiment; going back to his lonely hotel room is kind of the last thing he wants to do right now.  
  
“Oh, um. Kind of?” He doesn’t want to, not really. In fact, he’d hardly given a thought at all to the fact that he was leaving in the morning (in less than five hours, now). “I have to leave early. At seven?”  
  
“Shit, man. Why didn’t you say so?”  
  
Apparently his brain-to-mouth filter is even less present than it usually is, because David blurts out, “I liked talking to you!“ before he really registers what he’s saying. As soon as he does he wishes he could snatch the words from the air and stuff them back in his mouth.  
  
He stares at the countertop in lieu of looking at Cook, because oh gosh, embarrassment, and mumbles, “Um, I really do have to go, though, so… “  
  
He nearly jumps as the tip of Cook’s finger taps his hand, his eyes drawn first to the dark polish chipping along the nail and then up to the bartender’s face. Cook’s smile has gone all soft around the edges, and he looks a little amused, but it’s not mean, just sort of playful? If anything it does wonders to set David at ease and take the edge (okay,  _some_  of it) off of his embarrassment.  
  
“Hey, I liked talking to you, too,” Cook says, leaning his cheek against his palm. “We should do it again sometime, when you’re back in town.”  
  
“Really?” David doesn’t think about the fact that he probably won’t be back this way until the tour is over, which won’t be for another month or two (or more, depending on how many dates his manager tries to force on him). He’s kind of stuck on the possibility that Cook – who is nice and funny (in a ridiculous sort of way) and, okay,  _really_  kind of, um, attractive – wants to see him again.  
  
“Of course,” Cook says, like the answer is obvious, and David can’t keep the smile off his face as he pays for his soda (leaving a tip that’s probably too generous considering he only had one drink, but he slipped the money beneath his glass when Cook wasn’t looking, so), and waves goodbye, feeling infinitely warmer than when he first arrived at the bar even as he steps back out into the cold night air.  
  
Later, when he empties his pockets on the small bedside table in his hotel room, the crumbled bar receipt catches his eye.  
  
_In case you’re as impatient as I am_  is scrawled in pen across the bottom, followed by a row of numbers.  
  
It’s signed, simply,  _Cook_.

  
//

They’re at least an hour into Illinois before David builds up the courage to use the number.  
  
He’s in his bunk, a text window open on his cell phone as he stares at the receipt from the bar. He has no idea what to say.  
  
_I don’t know if you remember me, but__  
  
No, that’s stupid.  
  
_I heard this joke that reminded me of you__  
  
That’s a lie, and David doesn’t trust his ability to come up with a decent enough joke on his own anyway, so. No.  
  
_I’ve been thinking about you a lot__  
  
Delete delete delete.  
  
He finally settles on just saying  _Hi_ , and presses send before he even has the chance to second-guess himself.  
  
Ten minutes later he’s jiggling his foot against the wall, his cell phone cradled in his slightly clammy hand, and when it vibrates against his palm he nearly tosses it to the floor. He catches himself just in time, telling himself to get a grip as he thumbs the lock screen open. It’s just a text. Nothing to get so flustered over.  
  
_Cook – 2:33 PM_  
  
David! I see you got my note ;)  
  
Oh gosh. David feels his cheeks flushing, and the longer he stares at the words on the screen (and that pesky winking emoticon) the worse it gets. He fumbles with the keys.  
  
_David Archuleta – 2:36 PM_  
  
yeah... sorry it took so long to say anything!  
  
_Cook – 2:38 PM_  
  
Hey, it’s no problem. Just glad you decided to respond at all.  
  
_2:39 PM_  
  
So what’s up? How’s Illinois?  
  
_David Archuleta – 2:41 PM_  
  
it’s okay? snowy! i haven’t been paying much attention to the scenery though. mostly napping against the window, haha.  
  
Which is true. He’d been lethargic the whole day, ever since his early morning wake-up call, and had taken to slipping into light dozes to make up for all the sleep he’d missed the night before (well, in between bouts of nervous anticipation and staring at his phone, anyway.)  
  
_Cook – 2: 45PM_  
  
Nothing wrong with that!  
  
_David Archuleta – 2:47 PM_  
  
so… how’s the bar?  
  
He winces even as he sends it, because it’s kind of a stupid question, but he doesn’t want their conversation to end so soon and he can’t think of anything else to say.  
  
_Cook – 2:50 PM_  
  
No idea! I have the day off, thankfully. Planning on getting some work done in the meantime.  
  
_David Archuleta – 2:52 PM_  
  
oh, band-related work?  
  
_Cook – 2: 54 PM_  
  
You’ve got it! We have a gig in a few weeks, so.  
  
The next text Cook sends has a link in it. David clicks on it curiously, settling more comfortably against the pillows in his bunk as the page loads on his screen. It’s a website for a… a pub, it looks like, and on top of the page is an advertisement for live music. He scrolls down, eyes widening as he spots a familiar face.  
  
It’s Cook, only he’s wearing a vest and tie over a tight-fitting shirt instead of a t-shirt and ripped jeans like he was last night, and he’s sort of staring moodily into the camera and David thinks there’s, um, eyeliner involved and, wow.  
  
There are four other men around him, all of them with various tattoos or piercings, and David realizes this is Cook’s  _band_ , that Cook’s really a  _musician_ , and he spends at least another five minutes just staring at the page before he notices the name (and realizes he’s been silent for a little too long, oh gosh).  
  
_David Archuleta – 3:00 PM_  
  
so the anthemic is your band?  
  
Cook answers him straight away, and David hopes he doesn’t think anything of his long pause before that last text.  
  
_Cook – 3:02 PM_  
  
Yeah, that’s us. We’re playing at one of the big local bars in the city. Too bad you’re out of town – you’d get the full VIP treatment if you came, you know, since you’re in with the lead singer ;)  
  
David stares at that tiny little winking emoticon for longer than is probably healthy, and he tries not to think of how tempting that thought is, returning to Missouri and watching Cook perform. It’s an infinitely more pleasing alternative than a dozen or more tour dates spread out along the east coast.  
  
_I’ll have to take a rain check for now_ , he sends, keenly aware of how red his face is and grateful that Cook can’t see it. _But maybe when I’m back in town? I’d love to see you guys perform :)_  
  
The resulting text from Cook –  _You got it!_  – makes him smile, and he spends the next half an hour asking Cook about his band, where they’ve played, and how long he’s been playing music. It’s an easy conversation, punctuated by David’s laughter as Cook tells him increasingly racy stories about his bandmates (most of which he’s pretty sure are exaggerated for comedic effect), and the gentle swaying of the bus’ wheels as it rumbles onward towards its next destination.  
  


  
//

  
  
They start texting pretty frequently after that.  
  
Most of the time Cook’s the one that initiates a conversation, sending silly jokes or observations about the various patrons he serves in the bar, stuff that his band members (who David quickly learns are Neal, Andy, Kyle, and Monty) have said or done, and David retaliates with carefully chosen details about where he’s going or what he’s doing.  
  
Cook never really asks him what he does for a living. Maybe he thinks David’s on some cross-country road trip, or on vacation from school, or something, but whatever it is Cook  _thinks_  he does, David never bothers to ask. He sends Cook photos from their various stops, though, interesting landmarks and road signs and even, on occasion, the various theaters and other venues he performs at (leaving out his exact reason for being there, of course). In return Cook sends back candid pictures of his bandmates, himself making goofy faces and, occasionally, the little black terrier that is his bar’s namesake.  
  
He also starts calling David ‘Archie,’ claiming, “If I can’t be David than it’s only fair that you can’t, either. Besides, it suits you!” And okay, even though it makes him feel a little like an old man sometimes, it’s also strangely endearing, the fact that Cook gave him a nickname, and it grows on David, little by little.  
  
David’s bandmates send him questioning looks now and then, particularly whenever he happens to be on his phone, but they don’t ask him about it, and for that he’s grateful. He’s not really sure how he’d explain that he’s been talking to a bartender he met nearly two weeks ago when he snuck out of his hotel room in the middle of the night.  
  
It’s not that he doesn’t trust them or anything; it’s more like… this thing with Cook, it’s something he likes keeping to himself. Not because he’s ashamed, or embarrassed of their burgeoning friendship, but rather because he likes having something that’s purely his, something he doesn’t have to share with anyone. He knows that if he  _did_  tell, there would be an endless array of questions and concerns and he just doesn’t want to deal with that.  
  
He doesn’t know how he’d explain to everyone that Cook is  _different_ , and that’s what David likes about him. He’s not another musician on the same label, or a record exec, or another pop sensation. He’s completely removed from the world that David’s been immersed in for the past seven years, and it’s a refreshing change. Cook’s  _normal_ , and he thinks David’s normal too, not a celebrity, not famous. He’s not like the friends David used to have, the ones he knew before _Idol_ , the ones who act weird around him now, who look at him as if he’s this whole new person because he’s famous. Cook looked at him that night in the bar like he was a regular person, one he wanted to get to know without realizing that David’s face was plastered across billboards or splayed out in magazines.  
  
It’s freeing, to have that sort of anonymity, and he likes that Cook doesn’t know about that part of his life. He doesn’t want Cook to treat him like some of his hometown friends do, like he’s a commodity. So it’s okay that he hasn’t told Cook yet, about who he is, and what he does. The way their friendship Is right now, easy and fun… it’s enough, for now, and it makes him  _happy_. As far as David’s concerned, that’s really all that matters.

//

He’s camped out on his hotel bed one night in Indianapolis, checking through his private email and debating on whether or not he should put in a movie or just head to bed early when his phone rings.  
  
He checks the screen and feels his lips curl into a smile (totally on their own, seriously!) when he sees it’s Cook.  
  
“Hello?”  
  
“Archie! I didn’t wake you, did I?”  
  
David rolls onto his back, smiling at the ceiling. “No, you didn’t. What’s up?”  
  
“I actually wanted to ask you something,” Cook starts, and David nods his head before remembering that Cook can’t actually see him.  
  
“Okay?”  
  
Cook asks him if he’s near a computer, and when David answers in the affirmative, he says, “Excellent. Know how to use Skype, by any chance?”  
  
“Yeah, but what does that – “ David trails off, his eyes going a little wide. “Oh. You want to?”  
  
“That’s right,” Cook affirms, and David can practically feel his smile through the phone. “If you want to, anyway. I know you’ve gotta be missing seeing this face in living color by now.”  
  
David chokes out a laugh despite the fact that, um, yeah. “You’ve got me there,” he says, clicking on the Skype icon on his laptop. “Photographs just don’t compare to the real thing, after all.”  
  
Cook laughs. “See, I knew it!” he says, and rattles off his username. Within moments David’s clicking on the ‘call’ button, the familiar Skype ringtone echoing through his laptop speakers, and then Cook’s face is on his screen.  
  
“There you are!” Cook waves cheekily at him, grinning, and David’s helpless to contain a smile of his own as he waves a little shyly back.  
  
“Here I am,” he says, studying Cook’s face, because photos are one thing but it really is an entirely different experience to actually be able to see Cook face to face (well, screen to screen.)  
  
He’s wearing a grey t-shirt and a Royals cap, and as David peers closer at the screen he notices a little black ball of fluff curled up in Cook’s lap.  
  
“Oh!” He leans closer to the screen, his smile wide. “Is that – ?”  
  
Cook lifts Dublin up in his arms so David can see him better, the little terrier yawning widely and looking disgruntled by the movement. “C’mon, say hi, Dubs.”  
  
Dublin peers at the screen, his head tilting to the side.  
  
“Hey there,” David breathes, laughing as Dublin’s ears perk up at the sound; he scrambles out of Cook’s arms and onto the desk, his nose filling up the screen for a moment before Cook pulls him away.  
  
“Okay, attention hog,” he says, depositing the pup on the floor and out of sight, adopting a truly pathetic expression as he turns back to David. “Dude, I think my dog likes you more than me and you haven’t even met face-to-face. That’s depressing.”  
  
“Awww. I’m sure that’s not true.”  
  
Cook makes a noncommittal sound but doesn’t reply; instead he just kind of… looks, at David, for long enough that David has to cough and glance away, pressing his fingers to his face.  
  
“Um, is there something on my face or something?” he asks, and Cook seems to shake himself.  
  
“Nah. It’s just nice to see your face, man.” He grimaces a little, scratching at his nose. “Which probably is a ridiculous thing to say, right – “  
  
“No, I – It is. Nice, I mean. To see you, too.” Oh gosh, could he be any more tongue-tied?  
  
Cook grins at his words, though, and it’s kind of infectious; David can feel his own smile growing because of it.  
  
“Even when I look like a bum?” Cook asks, rubbing a hand along his jaw, and David notices now how his beard’s a little thicker than usual, and his hair is out of its usual tousled spikes, flat underneath his cap.  
  
“Oh gosh, Cook, you don’t look like a bum,” David says, and, before he censor himself, “You look, um, fine.”  
  
He must not sound as sure as he feels, because Cook just laughs at him, like he thinks David’s just, whatever, being polite or something. David doesn’t know how to tell him he’s telling the truth without sounding dumb anyway, so he doesn’t try.  
  
They settle into conversation, Cook telling him about how practice has been going, that they’ve penned a new song and hey, would David like to hear it sometime? (Um, yes!) David tells Cook a little about Indianapolis, and the absolutely amazing Thai place he’d managed to find earlier, which leads to a ten minute tirade about how good Thai food actually is because apparently Cook’s never even had it!  
  
Back when they’d first met, David had been a little intimidated by Cook’s easy charm and somewhat explosive personality, and it had taken a while before he’d felt comfortable enough to really ask anything of him. Now, though, he’s got a specific request on his mind, brought on by a few stolen hours on his laptop and a curiosity that ached to be satisfied.  
  
“Sing me something?” he asks, and he’d be embarrassed that he just interrupted whatever Cook was saying about Neal and some misplaced amp wires if it weren’t for the strength of his desire to hear Cook’s voice.  
  
Cook doesn’t look put off by the request, though; he just raises an eyebrow and asks, “Looking for a free show, huh, Archuleta?” His smile’s all slanted and teasing, but David can tell he’s caught Cook a little off guard. It’s in the way he won’t quite meet David’s eyes, choosing instead to mess with something off-screen.  
  
“I looked up videos,” David says, quietly, and Cook goes still. “On YouTube. I really like, um…  _Try to leave a light on when I’m gone, something I rely on to get home_. That song?”  
  
Cook’s staring at him like he’s suddenly grown two heads, and David fidgets a little uncomfortably, wondering if he should have kept his mouth shut.  
  
“That’s… “ Cook starts, and his eyes are kind of wide. “You didn’t tell me you could  _sing_ ,” he finally breathes, and David shakes his head, his heart beating a little faster.  
  
“Everybody can sing,” he says dismissively. “And I  _did_  tell you, that first night.”  
  
Cook shakes his head. “Yeah, but you can  _sing_ ,” he says, as if emphasizing the word will somehow make his meaning more clear. David understands what he’s saying, though, because he thought the same thing, about Cook, when he clicked on that first video, the quality kind of grainy but the audio really clear and  _amazing_ , Cook’s voice low and gravelly as he sang, his hands wrapped around a white guitar and his mouth pressed intimately to the mic.  
  
“Sing me something else,” Cook suddenly demands, and David stares at him incredulously, already shaking his head no because he totally asked first!  
  
“I asked first!” he says, and won’t hear anything else about it, pretending that he can’t hear Cook’s increasingly ridiculous pleas or see the way he’s practically  _pouting_ , oh gosh, all sad eyes and trembling lips. “It’s not going to work, you know,” David tells him smugly. “I have four siblings, I’m immune to that expression.”  
  
Cook drops the act, sighing gustily as he leans back in his chair. “Alright, alright. Puppy eyes are ineffective against David Archuleta. Duly noted.”  
  
David grins. “Does that mean you’ll sing for me then?”  
  
Cook makes a show of considering his request, finally rolling his eyes and pointing a finger at the screen. “Fine, Archuleta. But you’re returning the favor. Count on it.”  
  
He disappears from the screen before David can respond, and by the time he slides back into the chair, a guitar cradled in his lap, any protests David may have been thinking about making die on his lips.  
  
He watches as Cook strums the strings a few times, making sure the instrument is in tune, the expression on his face peaceful and content as he watches the progression of his fingers against the fret board. It’s clear by the look on his face that this is something he loves.  
  
“So, what are you in the mood for?” Cook asks, and David pillows his head on his folded arms, tilting the screen so he can still see Cook clearly.  
  
“Surprise me,” he says, and can tell by the slant of Cook’s smile that that was the right thing to say.  
  
“ _The strands in your eyes that color them wonderful stop me and steal my breath_.”  
  
Cook’s voice is soft and low, and though the audio suffers a little through the Skype connection, it doesn’t detract from the quality of Cook’s singing, and David melts into the bed as the music filters through his laptop’s speakers. “ _And emeralds from mountains thrust towards the sky, never revealing their depth_.”  
  
It’s different, hearing Cook this way, just him and the guitar instead of with the full force of his band behind him. This is softer, more intimate in a way, because it’s just the two of them, no screaming fans or rowdy bar goers or anybody else to provide a distraction. David’s kind of unable to look away from the screen, and it seems Cook is like-wise affected by whatever strange spell has fallen over them both, because he’s not breaking their eye contact at all.  
  
When David had looked up those videos a few days ago, sequestered away in his bunk on the bus, he’d been caught off guard by how genuinely  _good_  Cook was, his presence on stage like a beacon, holding the crowd’s attention and keeping it, and that was nothing compared to his  _voice_ , which had been, um.  
  
He doesn’t understand how Cook isn’t out there performing for crowds all over the country. He could do it, David doesn’t doubt that, and he would probably take to it like a duck to water, like he belonged in that world in a way that David sometimes feels  _he_  doesn’t.  
  
He feels suddenly privileged to be hearing this, hearing Cook’s voice all stripped down, slow and soft, and though he’s not familiar with the words to the song Cook’s singing, he picks up on the melody well enough, softly humming along as Cook reaches the end of the second verse.  
  
“ _I’ll be the greatest fan of your life, the greatest fan of your life_...” When his voice trails off, the last note of the song fading into the empty air (and miles and miles, David can’t help but think) between them, David lets out a breath, closing his eyes for a moment before he feels able to meet Cook’s gaze again.  
  
“That was amazing.” He’s completely genuine when he says it, and he hopes Cook knows that, that it’s not just an empty compliment, because it  _was_  amazing, and a little overwhelming for a reason that David can’t name, just yet.  
  
By the look on Cook’s face, David thinks he understands, and they spend a moment just smiling a little goofily at each other before Cook narrows his eyes and points at the screen.  
  
“Your turn, Archuleta. You promised.”  
  
David knows he did no such thing, but he begins humming the opening chords of  _Imagine_  anyway. He’s always loved the song, ever since the first night he sang it on that wide  _Idol_  stage, and it reminds him always of that sense of awe and wonder that had buoyed him constantly through the competition. His eyes slip closed as he starts to sing, a habit he’s never quite been able to break, and, after a few moments of nothing save the sound of his own voice, he hears the soft strains of Cook’s guitar, providing the melody to David’s words.  
  
As the song draws to a close, the last note leaving David’s lips like a gift, he opens his eyes to see Cook’s face, the older man looking a little awed and dreamy-eyed, much like David figures he’d looked, just a few moments ago as he’d listened to Cook sing.  
  
Cook tilts his head, his hand resting against the neck of his guitar, and stares at David; he doesn’t know what Cook sees in his face, or even what he’s looking for, but he doesn’t feel uncomfortable being the focus of Cook’s regard, doesn’t really feel anything but happy, and warm.  
  
“You’re a bit of a mystery, Archuleta,” Cook finally murmurs.  
  
David tilts his head, thinking fondly  _Isn’t that my line?_  and says, “So I’ve been told.”  
  
Cook laughs sort of loudly, like it was startled out of him, and David spends a few moments feeling weirdly accomplished for being the cause of it.

  
//

  
It happens after his show in Columbus. David’s sweaty and exhausted by the time he and the band pile back into the bus, looking forward to their hotel reservations and the chance to sleep in an actual bed.  
  
He’s lounging in his bunk, using the short fifteen minutes it’ll take to get to the hotel to rest his eyes, when his phone vibrates with an incoming text. He groans as he wriggles his fingers into his pocket to grab it, staring blearily at the screen. Cook’s name in his incoming messages makes him smile, though, and he thumbs open the text with a little more enthusiasm than he’d probably feel if it had been anyone else.  
  
_Cook – 9:34 PM_  
  
So, you’re famous.  
  
David’s smile freezes on his face, trembles as he stares at the text with something like fear bubbling in his chest, and finally falls as the true weight of the words crash over him. He sits up in his bunk, staring down at the screen, his fingers hovering ineffectually over the keys as his mind races for something to say,  _anything_  to say.  
  
Cook  _knows_ , and David has no idea what that means for him now, what it might mean for their friendship. Because Cook _is_  his friend, or at least it feels like he is. He’s so easy to talk to, and he never seems to get annoyed at David’s tendency to ramble (even in text), or care that he bursts into song at any given moment, and David’s suddenly so scared of losing that, that easy camaraderie and connection he and Cook seem to share, that it takes him nearly twenty minutes to respond to Cook’s text.  
  
_David Archuleta – 9:52 PM_  
  
um. yeah. sorry I didn’t tell you?  
  
It takes a few minutes to receive a response, and in that time a thousand scenarios run through David’s mind, each one worse than the last – Cook angry at him for his deception, Cook treating him differently because of his fame, Cook not wanting to speak to him at all anymore. When his text notification finally goes off, he almost doesn’t want to look at it.  
  
_Cook – 9:55 PM_  
  
Huh. I would have gotten you to sign a menu or something, if I’d known there was a celebrity on the premises.  
  
_9:56 PM_  
  
Oh shit! I almost forgot.  
  
_9:57 PM_  
  
What do you call a snobby criminal going downstairs?  
  
_9:58 PM_  
  
A condescending con descending!  
  
_9:59 PM_  
  
Get it?  
  
It’s not even that funny, just another one of the ridiculous jokes that David’s come to expect from Cook, yet David finds himself giggling breathlessly anyway, pressing a hand to his mouth to muffle the sound so he won’t alert any of the band out in the front of the bus.  
  
He’s not aware there are tears in his eyes until he feels one slide down his cheek, and he reaches up to wipe it away, holding his phone close to his chest, feeling indescribably warm, and light. All of the worry he’s been carrying around, along with the guilt he’s felt at keeping the truth of who he is from Cook, all seems to float away, and he slumps against the wall, nearly overcome with relief.  
  
He ends up calling Cook as soon as he reaches his hotel room, waving a distracted goodnight to the band, and the other man’s voice is like an added balm, soothing what little nervous energy David is still carrying around.  
  
They talk for an hour about everything and nothing, and Cook doesn’t accuse him of anything, doesn’t call him out on his sort-of lie, just talks about a fight that happened in the bar the other night (“It was over before it started, really, but I did get to vault over the bar, which was  _awesome_.”) and how practice is going for the band’s upcoming gig.  
  
It’s David that brings up the tour; he talks about how beautiful the last theater was that he performed in (“I sent you a photo, I think?”), the strange things – or um, body parts – that the fans sometimes ask him to sign at the meet and greets (“She started  _lifting her shirt_ , Cook, and I was just. No.”) and even about how overwhelming it can be, at times, how he likes nights like tonight, when they stop at hotels, because the bus is big and everything, but after a few days it starts to feel a little cramped, especially with four other people sharing it with him.  
  
He doesn’t talk about how tired he’s been lately, or how afraid he is that his manager’s going to try and add even more stops to the tour, or how he kind of wishes it were all over and done with, but it’s enough that Cook’s there to listen to the other stuff, and that he doesn’t tell David he’s being ungrateful, or that he’s whining when he should be enjoying himself (he’d been a little afraid to tell Cook any of this, at first, because Cook was trying so hard to get his music out there, to have what David already has and is  _complaining_  about).  
  
They talk well into the night, until David’s yawning into the phone, and when Cook laughingly tells him to “get some rest, superstar,” David does just that, huffing out a sleepy goodnight before he hangs up.  
  
It’s the best night of sleep he’s had in weeks.

  
//

  
His phone keeps beeping at him, little chirps every ten minutes or so that indicates he’s getting another call. David ignores it, deep in conversation with his mother, and figures whoever it is can wait until he’s finished.  
  
When he eventually hangs up, after promising he’ll call again after his show tomorrow night, David glances at his screen and blanches at the four missed call alerts, all from Cook. There are a couple of voicemails, too.  
  
He’s about to press the send button, a little anxious, thinking that something’s wrong, when his phone beeps with another incoming call. It’s Cook.  
  
“Hello?”  
  
“Archie!” He has to hold the phone away from his ear for a moment; Cook’s voice is kind of, um, loud. He spares a second to be grateful that the rest of the band are already in their bunks and can’t hear it.  
  
“Is everything okay?” he asks, cautiously pressing the receiver back to his ear. “I saw that you called? Um, a lot. I was on the phone with my mom, so – “  
  
“S’okay! I just wanted to – wanted to tell you something!”  
  
There’s something a little off about Cook’s voice, something other than the volume, anyway, and it takes David less than a second to realize it’s because the other man’s slurring his words. “… Okay?”  
  
“Your voice, did you know? Your  _voice_  is… it’s kind of amazing.”  
  
David stares at the opposite wall, his mind suddenly blank; he can see his reflection in one of the windows, and his mouth’s hanging open a little. “Um. Thank you?” he finally manages to get out, more than a little flattered and also confused. Very confused. “You called me four times to tell me that?”  
  
“Noooo,” Cook drawls, his voice thick. “I called ‘cause I wanted t’ hear your voice.” He says it so matter-of-factly that for a moment David doesn’t even know how to respond.  
  
“I – Cook, I – “  
  
He hears a sudden shuffling over the line, followed by a muffled, “Shit, Dave not again,” and Cook’s indignant “Gimme that!” sounding far away, like he’s dropped his phone.  
  
“Hello?” David tries, once the shuffling has died down a little; he can hear Cook speaking but can’t discern the words.  
  
“Yeah, hey,” someone grunts into the phone. “I’m assuming this is David?”  
  
“Um, yes?”  
  
The person on the other end sighs. “Figures. Look, this is Neal. Dave’s drunk off his ass so I’m confiscating his phone, _again_.”  
  
“Oh, uh – “  
  
“I would just erase those voicemails he’s left you,” Neal continues, followed by the sound of scuffling and a bitten off, “The fuck, did you just  _bite_  me?” before a loud  _clack_  echoes across the line.  
  
“Um, hello?” There’s nothing but static on the other end, and David pulls his phone away from his ear to stare a little dumbfounded at the screen.  
  
“Huh,” he says to the empty air. That had been… interesting.  
  
  
  
He doesn’t actually mention the drunken call to Cook, mostly because Cook doesn’t seem to remember it and also because he’s not entirely sure what to make of it. And okay, every time he thinks about the way Cook sounded when he told David he had an amazing voice, David kind of flushes red all over and has to go lie down for a second, so. It’s just best not to bring it up.  
  
(He does, however, listen to the three voicemails Cook left him, all of them varying degrees of coherent but full of Cook’s happy, slightly muffled voice and warm laughter. He saves them to his phone without a second thought.)

  
//

  
The show in Charleston is… hard. David takes to the stage on a bare four hours of sleep, having spent the bulk of the last night going over the proposed tour dates for the next two months. The bus had been silent save for the continual sounds he always attributes to the road – wheels treading over asphalt, the rumble of other vehicles moving in and out of traffic, and the faint sound of the radio up front.  
  
It had crept up on him seemingly out of nowhere. The bus had suddenly felt too small, too stifling – he’d felt trapped, like he couldn’t spend one more minute sitting inside it, couldn’t take another night crammed into his bunk. He’d missed his childhood bed with a longing that surprised him, missed the bed in his apartment back in Los Angeles, too, and he’d spent nearly an hour telling himself that no, he couldn’t duck away to the nearest airport and hitch a ride home; he had _responsibilities_ , he had obligations, and it would be selfish of him to run away from all of them, no matter how dearly he wished to.  
  
If he could just hold out, wait out the bouts of exhaustion and unhappiness, he would get through the tour, and at least he had a break coming up to look forward to. There was a week where he had no dates at all, and he had already heard the band talking about using the break in the schedule to fly home. There was nothing stopping him from doing the same. He just had to get through the next couple of weeks.  
  
So he’d pressed his face to his knees, breathing in and out until that awful claustrophobic feeling had finally leeched out of him, and then he’d collapsed face first into his bunk, falling into a fitful sleep.  
  
Preparation for the show had been fine, at first, just an endless blur of hair and makeup and a quick sound check. Towards the end of it he had felt off, tired in a way he hadn’t experienced before, too hot and sweaty under the bright stage lights. He’d soldiered on, though,  _just get through the night_  repeating like a mantra in his head as he waited for the show to start.  
  
The crowd had been ecstatic, a wall of sound on all sides, and he’d tried to be as upbeat as they expected him to be, tried to pour his heart and soul into his performance like he was supposed to, like he always used to, and for a while it had worked. But then, halfway through his encore, when he’d been sitting at the keyboard playing  _A Thousand Miles_ , sweat plastering his hair to his forehead, he’d had to struggle to just finish the song, gulping in lungfuls of air away from the mic when he felt like his breath was leaving him, and though he’d tried to end the song on a strong note, by the time he’d reached the last verse, his voice had grown nearly too faint to hear. The crowd hadn’t seemed to notice (or to mind, if they had), and he’d gone backstage nearly trembling with relief that the whole thing was over and done with.  
  
Afterwards he wants nothing more than to duck into the car that will take him to the hotel for the night, but there’s a line of fans waiting outside, and his manager’s giving him that  _look_ , and so David sucks it up and plasters on a smile as he heads out to the barricades, patiently wading through fan after fan, posing for photos and signing his name so many times he loses count. He tries to pay attention to the conversations happening around him, tries not to let his exhaustion show, but each camera flash going off in his face only serves to make him more irritable and overwhelmed, until by the time he staggers off to the car he has to hide his shaking hands in the pockets of his jacket.  
  
He locks the door to his room as soon as he gets inside, sinking onto the sofa near the entryway with a barely suppressed whimper. The quiet helps to calm him down, even with the screams of the crowd and excited, garbled speech of the fans at the barricades lingering in his ears, and David just  _breathes_ , trying not to imagine waking up the next morning and climbing back onto the bus to do it all over again in the next city, trying not to think of anything at all.  
  
His phone chooses that moment to vibrate in his pocket. David almost doesn’t answer it, doesn’t want to talk to anyone, but when he glances at the screen and sees it’s a new text from Cook, he thumbs open the lock screen anyway.  
  
It’s a photo. The lighting’s not great, making the picture soft and a little fuzzy, but he can see Cook, bright-eyed and sweaty, and over his shoulder is a crowd of people, some holding bottles above their heads, others with their hands in the air.  
  
The message below the photo is short, and sweet.  _Wish you were here! :)_  
  
David stares at the words and the photo until his vision blurs, and then he presses the call button.  
  
“Archie!” Cook’s voice is a little loud and excited; in the background David can hear music and raised voices. “You get my text?”  
  
David presses his phone against his ear, having to clear his throat twice before he can speak. “Y-Yeah! How did the show go?”  
  
“Oh, hold on a minute – ” There’s the sound of movement, a blur of voices, the bang of a door being opened and shut, and then silence. “Sorry, could barely hear myself think in the bar. It went well! I think.” Cook laughs, and David finds himself pressing his phone against his ear, trying to chase the sound. “We had a good turn-out, at least, though it’s probably nothing you’re not used to.”  
  
“Shut up, I totally would have rather been there.” He meant it to come out playful, or teasing, or  _something_ , but his voice catches halfway through and there’s no disguising the way it wavers.  
  
There’s silence on the other end of the line for a moment, and David takes the opportunity to just breathe, wanting to apologize for being so, whatever, down and out when Cook’s just had an awesome night and definitely doesn’t need to deal with David’s issues.  
  
“Is everything okay, David?” Cook asks, and David chokes out, “Everything’s great, Cook. Really,” in a voice he barely recognizes as his own, watery and breathless like he can’t get enough air, and suddenly there are tears in his eyes, and he has to press his hand against his mouth to muffle the sounds he’s making, curling in on himself on the sofa.  
  
He doesn’t know how long he stays that way, tears leaking sluggishly from his eyes, phone pressed to his ear, but he feels wrung out and humiliated when it ends.  
  
“I’m sorry,” he mutters into his phone, sniffling quietly, his face red with embarrassment. He rubs at his wet eyes and dripping nose with the sleeve of his jacket, feeling disgusted with himself and mortified that Cook had to hear it all.  
  
“Hey, don’t apologize.” Cook’s voice is soft, and a little unsure, and David almost wants to hang up because he’s made what was supposed to be a fun, easy conversation into something weird.  
  
“No, I – I’m sorry for being all, whatever. T-tell me about the show, okay? I want to hear about it.”  
  
He hears a sigh on the other side of the line, followed by the crunch of gravel, and the faint music that had been drifting through their connection fades away into nothing.  
  
“Cook?” he asks, a little unsure himself. “Are you still there?”  
  
“Yeah, I’m here. Listen, David – is everything okay, over there? What’s going on?”  
  
David rubs at his eyes, feeling a headache building. “Nothing’s going on, okay? I’m fine, I – “  
  
“David.” Cook’s voice is firm, and David’s excuses dry up in his throat. “Talk to me. Tell me what’s wrong. Please?”  
  
David doesn’t speak, not for a long time, just stares at the carpeted floor beneath his shoes and presses his free palm hard against his closed eyes. Cook doesn’t try to rush him, or encourage him at all, but David can hear him breathing softly over the line, and for some reason it helps, knowing that the other man is there, knowing that he’s not going to try and force David into telling him anything; he knows, if he were to hang up, or say he didn’t want to talk about it, Cook would drop it.  
  
It’s that thought that finally gets him talking; he tells Cook about the show, and how tired he’s been. He talks about how singing has started to feel like a job (“And it shouldn’t, Cook, you know? Singing is --  _music_  is – it shouldn’t feel like a job.”) And, eventually, he talks about that night almost a month and a half ago, when he’d ducked into  _Dublin’s_  in a last-ditch effort to regain some control over his life, to exist for just a moment without somebody breathing down his neck.  
  
Cook doesn’t ask him why he won’t just stand up to the label and his manager and tell them he needs a break, like David almost expects him to. It’s the same thing David’s asked himself a hundred times before, after all.  
  
What Cook  _does_  say, is, “Are you touring nonstop? Can you get away for a while?”  
  
David blinks, not really knowing where Cook’s going with this. If it’s any variation of him running away for a few days, David would rather not hear it, as he’s run that same possibility through his head more than once.  
  
“There’s a break coming up, um. For a week?”  
  
“Are you going home, or – ?”  
  
“I – probably? I don’t really have any other plans.” David shrugs helplessly, even though he knows Cook can’t see him. He kind of feels like he’s lost track of the entire conversation. “Why are you asking me this, Cook?”  
  
There’s a pregnant pause on the other end of the line before Cook clears his throat and says, kind of abruptly, “Come to Missouri.”  
  
David pulls his phone away from his ear, staring at the glowing screen in something like shock, until Cook’s voice, a little muffled by the distance, echoes over the line. “David?”  
  
“Um, what did you just say?” he asks, a little wide-eyed, and Cook laughs, though it sounds kind of strangled, like he can’t really believe what he’s saying either.  
  
“I said, come to Missouri. To visit me,” he clarifies, and just, what.  
  
“I – “ David honestly has no idea what to say.  _That’s crazy_ , maybe.  _What am I supposed to tell everyone?_  is a question at the forefront of his mind.  _What do you expect to happen while I’m there?_  is another, but the words stick in his throat, refusing to be spoken.  
  
In the end it doesn’t matter, because all that comes out is –  
  
“Okay.”  
  
There’s a long pause, and David’s kind of just staring into the mirror hanging on the opposite wall, wondering if that really just came out of his mouth or if he imagined the whole thing, but then Cook lets out a breath and says, “Really?” in this sort of disbelieving voice, like he can’t believe it either, and David swallows roughly, feeling weirdly like he’s standing on some sort of precipice with absolutely no idea what’s waiting for him on the other side.  
  
“Y-yeah, really,” he finally gets out, and he knows it’s not really going to be that simple, that him saying yes doesn’t necessarily mean he’ll actually get to go; he’s not even taken into account what he’ll tell his family, who are expecting him to stay the entire break with them, or his manager, or  _anyone_  –  
  
But he  _wants_  to go. It wasn’t even an option until just a few minutes ago, yet the ferocity of his resolve, his desire for it, surprises him just as much as his agreement to come to Missouri seems to have surprised Cook.  
  
“Okay,” Cook breathes, and then, louder, “Okay, David. That’s – that’s what we’ll do then.”  
  
Something unfurls in David’s chest at those words; he doesn’t know if it’s relief, or happiness, or something else altogether, but he smiles against his phone, letting out a deep breath, and thinks,  _That’s what we’ll do_.

//

It’s not until David’s actually on the plane – a direct flight from Salt Lake City to Kansas City – that the enormity of his situation finally crashes down on him.  
  
He’s actually going; in a few hours he’ll land and Cook will be at the airport, waiting for him (“Just text me the terminal and I’ll be there,” he’d said), and he can’t quench the feeling squirming in his stomach, a hectic mix of excitement and anxiety that makes his palms sweaty and has him chewing on his bottom lip. He tries to listen to music to calm his nerves, but then his playlist switches over to one of the songs he’d downloaded from YouTube, a live recording of one of Cook’s songs, and oh gosh, that just makes everything worse.  
  
When the plane lands, coasting to the ground with a rumble of wheels on asphalt, David folds his hands in his lap and tells himself to get a grip. There’s nothing to be nervous about; it’s just Cook. They’ve been texting and talking and video chatting for nearly two months now, communicating in some way practically every day. It’s not like he’s meeting a stranger, for pete’s sake.  
  
It’s different, though, meeting face-to-face; he can’t explain why. A part of him is afraid he’ll make the wrong impression or do or say something stupid, and he’s painfully reminded of their first meeting, when he almost blurted out his secret, and what if he says something he shouldn’t? And oh gosh, he hasn’t even given any thought to the fact that he’s staying with Cook, too, instead of at a hotel, and –  
  
“Uh, sir?” David jumps, turning his head and blinking owlishly at the flight attendant standing at the end of his row; she’s gesturing to the rest of the cabin, which had apparently emptied out while he’d been having a mini panic attack. “You can exit the plane now.”  
  
“Oh, sorry!” He hastily climbs to his feet, realizing only after being yanked back into his seat that he’s neglected to unbuckle his seatbelt.  
  
_Please don’t let this be a precursor of things to come_ , he thinks desperately, unclasping his belt with a jerk of his hands, and he scurries off the plane with his eyes cast determinedly to the floor, too embarrassed to even thank the flight crew.

  
He hears Cook before he sees him.  
  
David has a ball cap pulled low over his eyes, and he’s struggling to shoulder his backpack, pull his suitcase along, and keep an eye on his phone at the same time as he makes his way through the crowded terminal. He’d texted Cook as soon as he’d gotten off the plane (carefully avoiding eye contact with the rest of the flight crew), and now he’s just searching through the sea of unfamiliar faces for the one he knows.  
  
A whistle from his left startles him enough that he lifts his head toward the sound, and a familiar laugh (fuller in quality now that it’s not being filtered through his cell or the unreliable Skype reception) echoes across the terminal, bringing a grin to David’s lips that he can’t even begin to try and tame.  
  
He leans up onto his toes, trying to catch a glimpse of Cook over the heads of other passengers, and out of the flow of people breaches an arm clad in a denim sleeve, waving widely. It lowers and emerges a second later holding a sign, _Archie_  emblazoned in thick black marker on the front with an arrow pointing down.  
  
Shaking his head, David cuts through the crowd, mumbling  _excuse me_ ’s and  _pardon me_ ’s as he goes, his heart hammering in his throat as he draws nearer to the sign baring Cook’s ridiculous nickname for him. A woman toting a large leopard-print suitcase passes in front of him, and then he’s standing a scant few feet from Cook’s broadly grinning face, the older man clad in a denim jacket and dark jeans.  
  
They stare at each other for a moment, David breathing a little funny for a reason he’s not even going to attempt to contemplate, and to distract himself from the riot of emotions roiling in his gut at the fact that Cook is  _right there_  – excitement and joy and this weird kind of anxious squirmy sensation in the bottom of his stomach – David wrinkles his nose at the sign Cook’s tucked under his arm.  
  
“Archie?” he asks, tilting his head. “Really, Cook?”  
  
Cook laughs, and just like that David’s entire body seems to sigh, the tension leaking out of his shoulders even as the butterflies-in-his-stomach sensation abruptly gets about ten times worse. (And, okay, that’s new and also not, because he’d felt the ghost of that sensation before, around people he admired or um. Well. He’s just not going to think about it.)  
  
Before he can do anything to stop it (not that he really wants to) Cook’s arms are wrapping around David’s shoulders, pulling the younger man tight against his chest. It’s the kind of full-bodied, bellies-touching type of hug that David’s never really been comfortable with, but for some reason the nervous, claustrophobic feeling he’s half-expecting doesn’t come; instead David finds his body kind of folding against Cook’s, his head resting on the other man’s shoulder for a moment. The sign’s kind of digging into his side, and Cook’s beard is causing a prickly, ticklish sensation against David’s temple, but he doesn’t think about moving away. If anything, he’s actually a little disappointed when Cook pulls back, grinning down at David.  
  
“Welcome back to Missouri, Archie,” he says, and David echoes his slightly cheesy grin, totally unable to help it because he’s actually  _here_ , and he never thought he would be, or that his mother would buy his story that he was flying out of Utah a little earlier than planned for a song writing session in Nashville. He’d felt horrible about lying to her, but she would have asked too many question had he told her he was visiting a friend, and in the long run it had just been easier to make up a (little) white lie. He resolves to tell her about Cook soon, and then all thoughts of his mother kind of float out of his head as Cook wraps an arm around David’s shoulder, a line of warmth along the back of his neck as he starts leading David through the crowd. “And hey, I consider this sign to be a moment of genius on my part. Do you know how much trouble brandishing a sign with ‘David Archuleta’ written on it would have gotten me into? Nice disguise, by the way.”  
  
David says, “Thank you,” even though he knows Cook’s totally teasing him, and then they’re stepping out into the cool Missouri air, the sun low in the sky and casting a hazy glow over their surroundings.  
  
“So,” Cook starts, steering David clear of other passerby as they head towards the parking lot, “I was thinking we could head to my place and get you settled in, and then maybe go grab something to eat, if you want?”  
  
David nods, licking his lips. “That sounds good. Um, are you sure you don’t mind me staying with you? I could go to a hotel or – “  
  
Cook clucks his tongue, his fingers squeezing a little at David’s shoulder. “Hush, my casa es su casa,” he says, his accent (er, well, his  _lack_  of an accent) sufficiently awful, and David laughs without meaning to, clapping his hand over his mouth and giggling at the affronted look on Cook’s face. “Hey, we can’t all speak flawless Spanish, Arch. Cut me some slack here.”  
  
“How do you know I speak Spanish?” David asks, marveling at the way Cook’s entire face seems to freeze.  
  
“Uh… “  
  
David raises a brow, fighting the urge to giggle at Cook’s deer in the headlight’s expression. “You’ve been YouTubing me, haven’t you?”  
  
Cook adopts an innocent expression (which isn’t really innocent at all). “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Archie. You must have mentioned you could speak Spanish and just forgot about it.”  
  
“Uh huh.” David tries to keep his face serious, but it’s kind of impossible considering Cook can’t even look at him. He pats Cook consolingly on the chest. “It’s totally okay, Cook. I looked you up first, after all.”  
  
“Well.” Cook coughs a little. “Oh, look! Here we are. Here, I’ll grab your stuff.”  
  
Cook’s already taken his bags and is tossing them into what David assumes is his truck before David can even blink, and he marvels a little at the way Cook’s carefully avoiding his gaze, his cheeks a ruddy shade of red beneath the scruff. If David didn’t know better, he’d say Cook was embarrassed, and it’s… really cute, actually.  
  
“Uh, you can climb on in,” Cook calls over his shoulder, moving his bags towards the front of the truck bed, and David climbs gingerly into the passenger seat, clipping his belt into the buckle and settling back against the cool leather.  
  
When Cook climbs into the driver’s seat, his awkward spell seems to have passed, and he shoots a grin at David as he pulls out of his parking space. There’s a CD playing, the volume low, but David’s able to pick up on the words with a familiarity that makes him smile.  
“Foo Fighters, right?” he asks, and Cook practically beams.  
  
“ _I’ve got another confession to make, I’m your fool_. Nice ear, Arch.”  
  
David nods, a little faintly, because it’s the first time he’s actually heard Cook sing in-person rather than through his computer screen, and he’s a little caught off guard by the sudden clarity of Cook’s voice.  
  
The ride to Cook’s apartment takes about half an hour, and they spend the bulk of the time trading questions back and forth. Cook asks him about his trip home, and David rambles on for longer than he meant to about his siblings and his mother and how they’d spent his first night back having a  _Super Smash Brothers_  marathon in the den, and how they’d gone into the city the next day and visited the Temple and the enormous Conference Center, and by the time he finishes with the huge meal his mother had made for the entire family the night before he’d left, David realizes he’s been speaking nonstop for the past fifteen minutes.  
  
“You really have to, um, stop me?” he says, a little embarrassed. “If I start to ramble too much.” He’s told Cook that before, because his mouth just gets away from him whether he’s on the phone or talking to someone in-person, but Cook’s never actually called him on it.  
  
“Why would I do that?” Cook asks teasingly. “If  _you_  don’t talk then it’ll fall on me to fill the silence and no one wants to hear me run my mouth.”  
  
David would very much like to point out that he wouldn’t mind that. Like, at all. But it seems his brain’s actually on the ball today, because he’s able to stuff the words securely into the back of his mind rather than letting them out of his mouth to run amok, so.  
  
  
  
Cook’s apartment isn’t overly large or anything, but it’s spacious and warm and smells like Cook’s cologne, and David falls onto the sofa with a sigh, practically melting into the squishy cushions.  
  
Cook had told him to make himself at home before disappearing into his bedroom to drop off David’s bags (David resolves to tell him he’s totally taking the couch, though, even if he is the guest), and he takes a moment to study his surroundings: the photos on the walls, the game systems and record player and flatscreen set up on the entertainment center, a jacket that can only be Cook’s thrown over the armchair by the couch, and a gleaming white guitar in the corner that immediately catches David’s attention.  
  
He sees the desk where Cook’s laptop is sitting, where Cook had been so many times during their scattered Skype calls, and the memories fill him with a sleepy sort of contentment now that he’s actually here in Cook’s apartment.  
  
A scattering of nails on hardwood heralds the arrival of a small bundle of black fur, and David leans forward to extend his hand to what can only be Dublin, smiling gently as the dog stands on its hind legs to press his paws to David’s knees, his tail wagging.  
  
“Hey there, Dublin,” he says, giggling as Dublin hops up onto the couch to sit beside him, head-butting the palm of David’s hand in an obvious appeal for attention. “It’s nice to meet you, too.” He settles back into the sofa cushions, ruffling Dublin’s fur with his fingers, and fights against the urge to shut his eyes.  
  
Exhaustion creeps up on him by degrees while he sits there. It’s not the draining sort of tiredness he’s used to; rather, he feels boneless and almost weightless, like he could drift happily off into sleep right there and then. It’s not surprising – he’d spent the entire trip home running around with his siblings and trying to fit as much as he could into the few days he had with them, and spent the bulk of the past night locked in a state of exhausted excitement, thinking of his impending trip and seeing Cook again, too hopped up on nerves and anticipation to get much sleep.  
  
He scratches lightly at Dublin’s ears, the dog settling its head in David’s lap, and the combination of Cook’s ridiculously comfy couch and a day of traveling coupled with a rather sleepless night causes David to tilt his head back, closing his eyes for just a moment.  
  
  
  
When he wakes up a couple of hours later, he’s groggy and a little confused as to where he is. It doesn’t hit him until he turns his head and sees Cook lounging in the nearby armchair that oh, he’s in Missouri, and oh gosh, he fell asleep without meaning to, didn’t he?  
  
He must make a sound or something; Dublin barks and scrambles off the couch, and Cook glances over at him, a smile curling his lips that makes David want to kick off the blanket he belatedly notices is covering him, suddenly too warm.  
  
“Have a nice nap?” Cook asks, and David nods his head, wiping at his eyes as he sits up.  
  
“Yeah,” he starts, and then has to cover his mouth as a yawn escapes him. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to just pass out on you. How long did I sleep?”  
  
Cook waves off his apology. “Hey, it’s no problem. We’re not on a set schedule or anything, Arch.”  
  
David smiles a little goofily, both at the words and the reemergence of his nickname.  _No schedule_. Gosh, those are wonderful words, aren’t they?  
  
His stomach chooses that moment to rumble, loudly, and he blushes. “Uh… “  
  
“Perfect timing,” Cook laughs, swinging his legs over the arm of the chair so he can stand. “The guys are at a nearby diner. Nothing special, but they do make the best pancakes in the state. If you’d like to go.”  
  
“Oh, yeah, that’d be great.” His stomach rumbles again, definitely on board with this plan. It’s not until they’re walking out the door that David realizes Cook said ‘the guys.’ As in, Cook’s  _band_ , who are all tall and tattooed and honestly kind of intimidating.  
  
They’re also friends of Cook, who is also, um, all of those things, so.  
  
_It’ll be fine_ , he thinks, wrapping a scarf around his throat as Cook locks up his apartment.  _Everything will be fine_.  
  
  
  
It turns out the guys – Neal, Andy, Kyle, and Monty – are a bit of a, um, rowdy bunch. Also, loud. David could hear them even before he and Cook walked into the diner, a bustling greasy spoon type of place with red and white tiled floors and a huge jukebox off in the corner.  
  
Cook’s bandmates are all jammed into a corner booth, and Cook grabs two unoccupied chairs to drag over to them.  
  
“About time you got here,” the blond with the lips piercings – Neal, right? – says, tossing a limp fry at Cook’s head. Cook scowls in his direction and then proceeds to ignore him completely, gesturing to David.  
  
“Guys, this is David. David, this is Neal, Andy, Monty, and Kyle.” He gestures to each of the men in turn, and then shoots them an unreadable look. “Be nice.”  
  
Neal scoffs. “I’m always nice,” he says, which is met with snorts from half the men at the table. “Hey, shut the fuck up, I am an absolute  _delight_.”  
  
“Just don’t listen to a thing he says,” Cook whispers, leaning in conspiratorially so that David is the only one who can hear him. “Monty’s your best bet at a decent conversation. And me, of course,” he adds, winking, to which David can only nod seriously, a little intimidated despite himself.  
  
A waitress stops by their booth to get their orders, and on Cook’s insistence David asks for the house special – a stack of pancakes smothered in the diner’s self-appointed “world famous” maple syrup. He makes Cook promise to help him finish them, though, especially once the waitress drops off the plate with its tower of flapjacks, so high David thinks even a wrong look could send the thing toppling to the floor.  
  
Between bites of the admittedly delicious pancakes, the rest of the guys ask him about his tour, and music in general, and they get into a spirited discussion about live music and how nothing compares to an actual in-person concert. It’s when David is talking about his stint on  _American Idol_  that he pauses, something occurring to him that he’s never actually bothered to find out yet. He nudges Cook with his shoulder, waiting until the older man’s swallowed his mouthful of syrup soaked goodness before saying, “You never told me how you found out. About me, I mean.”  
  
It’s Neal who answers, shooting Cook an exasperated glance. “I’m the one that told him, because apparently he’s an idiot and didn’t realize that hey, the name David Archuleta sounded familiar for a  _reason_.”  
  
“Hey!” Cook says. “Let’s focus less on me being oblivious and more on  _you_  apparently being a closeted  _American Idol_ junkie.”  
  
Neal chucks a sauce packet in Cook’s direction. “I watched  _one_  season, shut the fuck up. The  _point_  is, here Dave was, going on and on about this other David, and practically glued to his fucking phone – “  
  
Kyle snorts into his drink. “It was pretty bad, actually.”  
  
Cook just scratches the back of his neck, looking a little embarrassed. “I didn’t talk about him  _that_  much – “  
  
Neal barks out a laugh. “Bullshit! ’I have to send this to Archie,’ ‘Sorry guys, can’t go out tonight, I’m expecting a call from Archie.’ Oh, oh! And I’m quoting him word for word here, ‘Have you heard his fucking voice?’ How many YouTube links did you send me that one night, Dave? I lost count after the first dozen.”  
  
David stares a little wide-eyed at Cook, who’s scratching at his nose and pointedly not returning David’s gaze, and okay, that sounds an awful lot like, well. Like Cook really does talk about him. A lot. (And ha, he had totally been right about the YouTube thing.)  
  
“Alright, alright,” Monty cuts in, and David doesn’t miss Cook’s sigh of relief as the bassist continues with, “Cut Dave some slack.”  
  
“Yeah,” Andy chimes in, and Cook has half a second to smile gratefully in his direction before the other man goes on. “Dave can’t help it that he gets excited about making a new friend. It doesn’t happen very often.”  
  
“Hardy har har,” Cook grumps, leaning back in his seat. David jumps a little as his arm raises to settle on the back of David’s chair, but Cook just smiles winningly at him, and says, “I’m a fantastic friend, I’ll have you know. Isn’t that right, Arch?”  
  
David’s mouth runs away from him before his brain can catch up and stop it. “Other than the drunk calls, um, yes?”  
  
The entire table goes silent for half a beat until Kyle snorts, muffling the sound in the crook of his elbow as laughter shakes his shoulders. Neal crows, “Oh shit, I forgot about that!” and Cook just stares wide-eyed at David, his mouth hanging open.  
  
“I didn’t – “ he starts, turning to the guys for confirmation, which gets him nothing but an eyeful of his friends laughing at his expense. “Oh shit, seriously?”  
  
David nods, unable to help the small laugh that escapes. He lowers his voice so that no one else can hear him. “It was, um, a few weeks ago? You only did it once, though! And I didn’t mind, really.”  
  
Cook opens his mouth to say something in response – David has no idea what; he’s too busy staring at the dwindling stack of pancakes on his plate, wondering if he gave too much away with that last remark – when their waitress stops by the table to drop off their checks.  
  
David makes a grab for his but is beaten to it by Cook, who merely coughs and says, “To make up for the drunk dialing, okay?”  
  
“Okay, okay,” Andy pipes in, reaching into his wallet to pull out money for his own food. “Not that embarrassing the shit out of Dave isn’t my favorite pastime, but. Did you tell Archie yet?”  
  
“I was going to until you all started riding my ass,” Cook retorts, to which Neal raises a brow and says, “In your fucking dreams, Dave.”  
  
“Um, tell me what?” David asks, his cheeks a little hot for some reason.  
  
A wide grin spreads across Cook’s face, and he bumps his fist against David’s shoulder. “I wanted to wait until you got here to tell you. Remember that night I sent you the photo of our gig? When you called?”  
  
David nods, flushing a little because that had been the night he’d completely broken down; he wasn’t about to forget it.  
  
Cook nudges his shoulder a little, unnoticed by the rest of the guys, and David knows he’s remembering that, too. “Anyway,” he continues, “we’d been in touch with this record exec for a while, sending him demos, talking about studio time, and he happened to be there that night. We didn’t actually know until after the show, but he’d brought along this colleague of his, who happens to be an agent for a certain record label, and… “  
  
“Oh my gosh.” David glances between Neal and Monty and the others, all of them wearing identical grins, and then back to Cook, who seems barely able to contain himself. “Oh my gosh, Cook!”  
  
Cook laughs, a full-bodied burst of sound that echoes off the diner’s kitschy walls. “He signed us on the spot. We’ve met with him a couple of times since, and we’ve got studio time scheduled for, what, couple of weeks from now? Crazy, isn’t it?”  
  
“That’s amazing!” David exclaims, smiling widely. “You guys definitely deserve it!”  
  
“He’s saying that and he’s never even heard us live?” Andy whistles. “What have you been telling this guy, Dave?”  
  
“Hey, he’s done his research,” Cook says, winking at David, and David shoves him good-naturedly, shooting back, “Well, so have you, apparently!” and making the others laugh at Cook’s startled expression.  
  
  
  
They end up staying at the diner for another half an hour, and as the time passes David finds himself melding more comfortably than he thought he would with Cook’s bandmates. They’re a little intimidating at first glance, yes, but they’re also like Cook, prone to laughter and good-natured teasing and language that makes David blush, which helps to put him more at ease.  
  
By the time they leave it’s almost midnight, and even though David had slept just a few hours beforehand he still has to muffle a yawn as he slides into Cook’s truck.  
  
“Home was kind of… hectic,” he explains, Cook’s hands firm on the steering wheel as they drive back towards his apartment. “My older sister came to visit and brought my niece, so the house was full, and then traveling and everything… “  
  
“Hey, I get it.” Cook fiddles with the radio, the volume down low, and settles on a station playing soft rock music. “Remember what I said, Arch? No set schedule. I won’t be offended if you crash as soon as we get back, you know.”  
  
David can’t help but grin at the words. “You have no idea how nice that sounds,” he says, and settles into his seat with a happy sigh. “Not that I don’t love traveling and seeing new places and everything. It’s just nice not to have to meet a deadline or be in this place at this time.”  
  
“Well, you deserve a break, Arch. I’m glad you were able to get away for a little while.”  
  
David glances at Cook out of the corner of his eye, his voice softer as he says, “Um, thank you, by the way. For inviting me. You really didn’t have to.”  
  
“I wanted to, though,” Cook says, and David will never get used to the way Cook does that, how he can be so effortlessly blunt without being awkward about it, saying exactly what he means without stuttering or rambling or tripping over his words. David envies him for that.  
  
He’s adamant about taking the couch when they get back to Cook’s apartment, even though Cook protests and tells him to, “Take the bed, Arch, seriously. You’re my guest, remember?”  
  
But David puts his foot down. “No way, Cook. I’ll be totally fine on the couch,” he says, and before Cook can argue with him any more on the subject, he presses his hands to Cook’s chest and pushes him in the direction of his bedroom. “Seriously Cook, if you don’t drop it I’m totally going to play those drunk voicemails you left on my phone,” he says, to which Cook blinks and starts, “Wait, you kept those – ?” and David whines, “ _Cook_!”  
  
When he slides beneath the covers, after brushing his teeth and changing into pajamas (and reassuring Cook for the nth time that he would be fine on the couch), he feels tired and a little sore from his long day of travel, but also happy, from the good food and even better conversation with Cook and his bandmates, from the knowledge that he has no obligations for the rest of the week, and from the fact that he’s here in Missouri, and there’s honestly no other place he’d rather be.

  
//

  
Cook takes him out to breakfast the next morning (well, afternoon. David had woken up some time around eleven and Cook had stumbled out of his bedroom at ten minutes to noon looking like he would have gladly fallen back into bed had he been given the chance.)  
  
“So, what do you want to do, Arch?” Cook asks him over plates of bacon and eggs and toast, his second cup of coffee cradled close to his chest. David has a feeling Cook needs a lot of caffeine before he’s able to face the day.  
  
David shrugs his shoulders; he honestly hasn’t given any thought to what they’ll be doing while he’s here. He had kind of assumed Cook would take the helm in that regard. “Um. Whatever you have in mind is good?”  
  
Cook chuckles, taking a long sip of his coffee and peering at David over the rim of his cup. “You sure about that, Archie? There’s no backing down afterwards.”  
  
Which, okay. “Um, okay? I’m sure.”  
  
Cook  _beams_.  
  
“Okay, then. Come on.” Cook takes out his wallet and leaves a few bills on the table, smacking David’s hand away when he tries to pay his own half, and slides out of the booth to head in the direction of the door. David has little choice but to follow, slipping his coat back on and wrapping his scarf around his neck as he follows Cook out.  
  
“Where are we going?” He asks, sliding a little breathlessly into Cook’s truck.  
  
“We – “ Cook says, starting the engine, “ – are going to have some fun.”  
  
“Um, okay?” That could mean anything where Cook’s concerned. David figures they’ll end up at  _Dublin’s_ , which is fine, he likes Cook’s bar, but he was maybe just hoping they could hang out a bit longer um, on their own? Without other people? He doesn’t really let himself think about why he wants that, though.  
  
Cook turns on the radio, switching it to some rock station David doesn’t recognize, and soon he’s belting out  _Livin’ On a Prayer_  with such enthusiasm that David can’t help but join in, laughing too hard to get the words out when Cook raises his fist out the window, the cold air streaming in and ruffling their hair. The sunlight turns the strands of Cook’s auburn hair to gold; it’s actually a little distracting, and David spares a moment to be grateful he’s not the one driving.  
  
“ _Oh, we’re halfway there!_  C’mon, Arch, I can’t hear you!”  
  
“ _Oh, livin’ on a prayer_! Oh gosh, Cook, you’re so – “ David doesn’t even know. It feels like it’s been forever since he’s done this, sung along to the radio with reckless abandon, completely uncaring about hitting all the right notes or getting the words right. It feels good just to sing for the sake of singing, loud and unrestrained and breathless with laughter.  
  
“Charming?” Cook shoots back, fluttering his eyelashes obnoxiously. “Talented? Unbelievably handsome? It’s okay, Arch, you can tell me the truth.”  
  
“Crazy,” David says, shaking his head and totally unable to hide the fondness in his voice. Cook stares at him for a moment before his eyes crinkle up with laughter, but David notices how red his cheeks are underneath the scruff, and he has a feeling it’s not simply from the crisp, cool wind still filtering in through the open window.  
  
Something fragile and hopeful blooms in his chest, and David turns his head to stare out the window, afraid that his face will give him away if Cook sees it.  
  
As they rumble to a stop and Cook cuts the engine, David takes in the flashing lights above the storefront they’ve parked in front of with a little bit of an incredulous stare. He shoots a curious glance at Cook, who’s looking at him and grinning crookedly.  
  
“An arcade?” David asks, just to be sure.  
  
“Hell yes an arcade.” Cook nearly vaults out of the car, coming over to the other side to open David’s door for him, and before David can even attempt to think about the ramifications of that (because isn’t that something you’d do on a date?) Cook’s grabbing his wrist and pulling him toward the storefront, the inside awash with blinking lights and flashing signs above rows of game consoles.  
  
They’re not the only adults in the place, which David had been half-dreading, and no one gives him and Cook a second glance as they stuff a few dollars in the token machine, tucking the coins that come tumbling out into their pockets.  
  
David quickly steers Cook away from the Dance Dance Revolution machine, all brightly lit and pouring synthetic techno pop into the air. Cook laughs at him, promising half-threateningly that, “I’ll get you up there, Archuleta. Just you wait.”  
  
Cook beats him pretty solidly at all three of the racing games they try, David becoming increasingly competitive each time Cook’s car bumps his into the wall or some other obstacle and he falls into last place.  
  
As his car crashes into the wall for the tenth time in two minutes, David turns to stare accusingly at Cook.  
  
“You’re totally cheating!” he says, as YOU LOSE pops up in huge blocky letters on his screen.  
  
Cook merely raises an eyebrow at him, his own screen flashing YOU WIN in cheery yellow font. “And you’re totally a sore loser,” he shoots back, his lips twitching with barely suppressed amusement. “Also? Do you know your tongue sticks out when you’re concentrating really hard on something?”  
  
David sputters, “It does not!” and refuses to hear anything else about it. (He’s also definitely  _not_  pouting, no matter what Cook says.)  
  
He ends up creaming Cook at air hockey, a solid 6-2, and that at least makes him feel marginally better (as does Cook’s exaggerated pout as David scores the winning point).  
  
They end up making a circuit through the arcade, playing Whack-A-Mole and Street Fighter and some sort of Jurassic Park rip-off game where you shoot dinosaurs with a controller shaped like a gun? It’s totally weird, but Cook keeps freaking out every time one of the pixelated dinos gets too close (“Shit! Shoot it, Archie, Jesus Christ!”) and by the end of the game David’s laughing too hard to shoot straight, the jaws of a huge tyrannosaurus lunging toward the screen indicating they’ve lost.  
  
They’re down to a handful of tokens when Cook starts dragging David toward the DDR machine. David digs in his heels, pulling at the sleeve of Cook’s jacket, but it’s all in vain; Cook’s a lot bigger than he is (like, sturdier? And um, like he could probably just heft David over his shoulder if he really wanted to? Not that David’s thinking about that!)  
  
“Can’t you just do it on your own?” he asks, kind of desperately, watching as Cook starts sliding their remaining tokens into the coin slot.  
  
Cook shoots him a wounded look as he presses the myriad of buttons on the console, choosing the two player option with an exaggerated flourish. “Are you saying you don’t want to be my dance partner? I’m hurt, Archie.“  
  
“No, it’s not that! I just – “ David trails off, because Cook’s finished messing with the buttons and has hopped up onto the right dance pad, and is slipping his jacket off, leaving him in the black t-shirt with the tiger head and pirate swords across the chest. David’s a little distracted by the sight of his bare arms, his throat dry as he stares at the edge of a tattoo peeking out beneath one of the sleeves.  
  
“My eyes are up here, Arch.”  
  
David snaps his eyes back to Cook’s face, embarrassed (because he was basically just  _ogling_  Cook’s arms, what is _wrong_  with him?)  
  
But Cook doesn’t look angry, or disgusted, or like he’s, um, at all uncomfortable with the way David was looking at him, which is really not a train of thought David should be following in a place where there are children present, so.  
  
To distract himself from where his thoughts were leading, and honestly a little too overwhelmed by the possibilities, David steps up onto the other dance pad, unwinding his scarf from around his throat and removing his coat to give himself a few extra moments to get himself under control.  
  
“So, um,” he starts, staring at the flashing lights on the game console in lieu of staring at Cook (because that way madness lies, seriously.) “What are we dancing to?”  
  
  
  
His ploy to distract both Cook and himself from his little social faux pas (you’re not supposed to ogle your friends, not even the ones you’re almost 99.9% sure would welcome it) seems to work. It also seems to draw the attention of the entire arcade, because within about ten minutes there’s a crowd of children and even a few older-looking kids gathered around the machine, watching them.  
  
David’s a little wary at first; a baseball cap’s not exactly the best disguise ever, even with the arcade’s dim lighting to allow him a bit more anonymity. He doesn’t really need to worry, though – after another ten minutes of him helplessly trying to stomp the right buttons with his feet David figures out it’s not really him the kids are staring at.  
  
Cook’s, um, kind of ridiculously bad at this game. David’s pretty sure he hasn’t hit even a handful of the right buttons and they’re already on their second song. He’s also pretty sure Cook’s doing it on purpose, because every time he pulls off some crazy move the kid’s start to laugh, or cheer, and David can hear Cook’s breathless laughter even over the sound of the techno pop they’re attempting to dance to.  
  
And even though they both end up getting D’s (which is actually kind of rude, what sort of game grades your dance moves?) and David’s sweater is sticking uncomfortably to his back from all the moving around, it’s all worth it to see the way the kids crowd around Cook, looking both awed and a little skeptical (“How are you  _that_  bad?” David hears one little girl whisper, amazed).  
  
Cook catches David’s eye over their heads, winking, and David seriously has to restrain himself from pressing a hand to his heart, oh my heck.  
  
  
  
Before they leave Cook slaps their combined rolls of tickets on the counter. He makes a show of searching through the glass cases below the counter for a prize, ultimately picking out two braided leather bracelets and handing one to David with a flourish.  
  
“Now you have your own,” he quips, sliding the strip of leather over David’s left wrist before David can move, and then sliding the other onto his own. He turns back to the arcade employee before David can say anything (like  _thank you_  or  _oh gosh, you caught me staring earlier, didn’t you_  or  _oh my heck, you’re ridiculous and I kind of want to kiss you?_ ), which the younger man is thankful for, because the bracelet’s a line of warmth over his wrist and he’s kind of too busy dealing with this sudden crazy rush of affection to have any hope of actually speaking.  
  
He’s so distracted by what he’s feeling that he doesn’t even notice Cook pressing the rest of the tickets into his hands until the other man calls his name. To his credit, Cook doesn’t laugh as David jumps, his hands sort of flailing as he goes to grab the tickets before they go tumbling to the ground.  
  
He doesn’t even laugh when David uses the rest of them to get the small Nemo plush staring hopefully up at him from beneath the glass, which are definitely points in his favor.  
  
  
  
Later that night as David’s lying on the couch, rolling the Nemo plush between his hands, his eyes drawn irresistibly to the leather bracelet around his wrist, he finds himself unable to sleep. He’s too wound up, both from the day’s events and by the thoughts whirling around in his head, all of them centering on the man snoring gently in the next room.  
  
He thinks about how Cook acts around him, how his behavior could definitely be construed as flirtatious – all of the casual touches, the way he stares at David sometimes – and how, those times he’d caught  _David_  staring, like at the arcade, he’d never looked like he was against the idea. Heck, he’d drawn attention to it, calling David out on it instead of just changing the subject or making a joke, and earlier, when they’d gotten back to Cook’s apartment after dinner at this really nice bar and grill place (which Cook had paid for,  _again_ ), and Cook had helped him set up the couch with blankets, he’d sort of… lingered, like he didn’t want to go into his bedroom just yet, like he wanted to spend more time with David even though they’d spent the entire day together already.  
  
David can admit – to himself, at least – that he likes Cook. Likes him as a friend, likes to hang out with him, and talk to him, and laugh with him. But he also likes the attention Cook gives him, likes the way the older man looks at him, like his entire focus is on David; he likes how he feels around Cook, happy and warm, even when he does something embarrassing. He even likes how, um, out of control Cook sometimes makes him feel, all tongue-tied and hot and –  
  
It’s pretty clear to him that he has a crush on Cook (even though he kind of hates that word and how juvenile it makes him feel). It’s at once terrifying and exhilarating, making his body flush hot and cold all at once, until he has to kick off his blankets just to get some relief.  
  
It’s not the first time he’s had a crush on someone, but it’s the first time he’s thought, with any degree of certainty, that the person he was crushing on could like him  _back_.  
  
Because he thinks Cook  _does_ , and it’s not just wishful thinking on his part, he knows it’s not, and that may be the scariest part of all of this, because oh gosh, what does he even  _do_  about it?  
  
Part of him says to just go for it, that he should have gone for it earlier, at the arcade, when Cook had slipped the bracelet onto his wrist, because he’d wanted so badly to  _do_  something then, to grab Cook’s wrist or maybe lean against him or even to lean up and see what the curve of Cook’s ever-present grin tasted like (even with the employee  _right there_ , and that just proves how bad he’s got it, doesn’t it?)  
  
He’s only in Missouri for three more days, though. Less than that, really, considering he leaves on Sunday and will have to get to the airport early to make sure he doesn’t miss his flight. And then what about after, when he goes back on the road? He’s always busy, and even when he’s at home, it’s not like he and Cook live in the same neighborhood, or even the same  _state_. Could he handle a long-distance relationship?  
  
But then, isn’t that what he’d have to do anyway, even if it isn’t with Cook? As long as he’s making music, and performing (which, despite the downsides he’s been faced with lately he hopes will be for years to come), he’ll always have to deal with distance, and not seeing his partner for days or even weeks at a time.  
  
So it’s just a matter of figuring out if it’s worth it, right? If Cook is worth it?  
  
It doesn’t take more than a few moments for David to glance at the older man’s bedroom door, left ajar (“In case you need anything,” he’d said, smile warm and welcoming), and think,  _yeah, he’s definitely worth it_.  
  


//

  
He feels a little weird rummaging through Cook’s refrigerator the next morning, even though the older man had assured him that “what’s mine is yours, David, seriously.” He feels like a bit of a freeloader, though, with Cook paying for his meals and for the arcade yesterday and everything, and plus, he wants to take advantage of the fact that he actually woke up early this morning rather than sleeping in late like he’d done yesterday. He’s still too wary of being recognized should he go out on his own, and he would feel weird about ordering in from somewhere (plus he doesn’t really know the area or which restaurants deliver and – )  
  
Point is, it’s just easier to make something himself.  
  
Cook doesn’t have much in the way of breakfast foods, but he does have enough for David to scrounge up some decent omelets, so he grabs some eggs, onions, cheese, and a few other ingredients and spreads them out on the countertop.  
  
He’s humming the melody to  _Look Around_  while he cooks, his foot tapping along to the beat, so he doesn’t notice that Cook’s awake until he hears someone clear their throat behind him. David squeaks (actually  _squeaks_ ) and twists around, the spatula he’d been holding raised like a makeshift weapon, and Cook takes one look at him and bursts out laughing.  
  
“Sorry,” he chokes out between breaths. “Didn’t mean to scare you, Arch.”  
  
David’s torn between joining in and smacking Cook with the spatula anyway just to get him to stop, until he remembers he has an unfinished omelet in the skillet and hastily turns back to the stove to make sure it doesn’t burn.  
  
Cook’s laughter tapers off after a few seconds, and David hears the scuff of his feet against the tiled floor before the other man leans against the counter near him. David knows Cook’s staring at him, and that, coupled with his little revelation last night about his feelings for Cook, make David acutely aware of the distance between them, and the way Cook looks, in nothing but pajama pants, his hair sleep-rumpled and the tattoos on his chest and arms on full display.  
  
“Hey, you okay?” It  _definitely_  doesn’t help that Cook’s voice is a little low and hoarse, like he’s still struggling to wake up, and okay, David can feel his face turning red.  
  
“I’m fine!” he says, a little too loud, and nearly crumples with relief when muffled ringing suddenly echoes from Cook’s bedroom.  
  
Cook doesn’t look overly concerned about whoever’s calling him, though. He’s staring at David, who is trying very hard not to fidget under the scrutiny; he succeeds, barely, and Cook laughs a little, low and under his breath as he – finally – moves away.  
  
“Might want to step away from the stove, Arch,” he says, touching David’s shoulder, the warmth of his hand startling David so badly he nearly jumps, oh gosh. “You’re looking a little red in the face.”  
  
David gapes after him as Cook heads back into his bedroom (and then quickly turns back to the stovetop once his eyes decide they’d much rather span the length of Cook’s broad back.)  
  
He’s in  _so_  much trouble.  
  
  
  
It’s as they’re finishing breakfast, both of them sitting at Cook’s kitchen table with Dublin gnawing on a piece of bacon at their feet, that Cook clears his throat.  
  
“So,” he says, and waits until David’s looking at him to continue with, “That was Neal. On the phone.”  
  
Um, okay. “Oh?” David asks, because he’s not entirely sure what else he’s supposed to say to that.  
  
“He was telling me that everything was set up. For tonight.”  
  
“Tonight?” They hadn’t actually discussed what they were going to do, or made any plans. “Is there something going on tonight?”  
  
“Kind of.” And okay, Cook’s either being deliberately vague or he’s just trying to drive David crazy.  
  
“Cook, what’s going – “  
  
“I thought you’d like to come to a show,” Cook interrupts, his words a little hurried like he’s trying to get them out as fast as possible. “Uh, our show. Us. Me and the guys. Tonight.”  
  
Cook’s not looking at him anymore; instead he’s dragging his fork through what’s left of his omelet, though his eyes dart up to David’s face more than once as he waits for the younger man’s answer. David realizes with a start that Cook is _nervous_ , and the realization makes him want to laugh, because why would Cook ever think that David would say  _no_  to something like that?  
  
“Of course I would!” he says, trying to inject as much of the enthusiasm he’s feeling right now into the words. It must work, because Cook stops playing with his silverware and grins at him.  
  
“Awesome,” he says, and David echoes that sentiment wholeheartedly. He’s going to get to see Cook  _perform_!

//

David’s practically vibrating with excitement, his leg jiggling beneath the table as he waits for Cook’s set to start.  
  
Cook had set him up at the table closest to the stage, leaving him with a wink and a glass of water that was doing little to calm his nerves.  
  
_Dublin’s_  is packed tonight; Cook had introduced him to the bartender on duty, a woman with green hair named Kira, before ushering him over to the stage, where a ‘Reserved for Archie’ sign had been sitting.  
  
It’s like he can’t sit still; there’s a sense of urgency he can’t quite understand thrumming beneath his skin, the way he usually feels before a sold out concert or an important interview. He’s excited to see Cook perform, there’s no doubt about that, but there’s more to the feeling than just excitement for the show. He just can’t figure out what it is.  
  
He suspects it has something to do with the way Cook looks tonight. He’d walked out of his bedroom earlier wearing a tight-fitting white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal the tattoos on his forearms, and a black vest that fit snugly across his chest. Coupled with jeans that, um, left little to the imagination and a simple star-and-handcuffs necklace that David just can’t seem to stop  _staring_  at (and with the added complication of David’s little revelation last night), it’s no wonder that David’s all jittery and distracted.  
  
He jerks his head around to the stage as the people around him suddenly burst into applause, and oh gosh, there’s Cook and Monty and the others climbing on stage, and Cook’s slinging his guitar strap over his shoulders, grinning at the crowd and the flood of noise heralding the band as they take their place behind the mics.  
  
“How’s everybody doing tonight?” Cook calls, ‘tsk’ing as the noise from the crowd swells and then falls. “Eh, I know this crowd can do better than that. Let’s try that again, shall we?”  
  
He twists the mic stand so it’s facing the crowd, and the resulting applause is nearly deafening, David’s voice intermingled with the other screaming patrons.  
  
“ _Much_  better,” Cook says, strumming a brief burst of notes from his guitar. “Now, we’ve got a special guest in the audience tonight, so we’re gonna try and make this show one to remember.” His eyes pass over David, a quick, warm glance, and David holds his breath as the band seems to move as one, launching into  _’Til I’m Blue_. David recognizes the lyrics, and as Cook’s vocals and the music combine to shake the stage, he feels the rumble of the words in his feet and chest and throat, almost as if they’re spilling from his own mouth.  
  
“ _When they put me in the ground, I want you to be there waiting_.” Cook’s got his mouth pressed against the mic, nearly growling the words, and out of sight to the rest of the people in the bar, David’s fingers clench underneath the table totally of their own accord.  
  
The others are on fire, and every once in a while David’s eyes will stray to one of them, to Kyle pounding away at the drums or Neal’s fingers flying along the strings of his guitar, but most of the time he’s focused on Cook, caught in the effortless sway of his voice, the cadence of it as they cycle through song after song, steady and clear as he’s belting out _The World I Know_ ,  _All I Really Need is You_ , and a song he calls  _Life on the Moon_ , holding glory notes that make David’s heart stutter-stop in  _Wicked Game_ , rough and gritty when they launch into  _Just Died in Your Arms Tonight_.  
  
David knows his eyes are wide as he watches Cook move up on the stage; if he were a little more aware, a little less distracted, he might try and school his expression into one that’s a little less star-struck, a little less… something it shouldn’t be in a crowded room while he’s sitting in Cook’s direct line of sight.  
  
_Oh, I just died in your arms tonight. It must have been something you said. I just died in your arms tonight_.” Cook isn’t helping matters any, the way he suddenly can’t seem to look away from David, sweat dripping into his eyes and neck taut as he raises his head to belt out the words, the steel necklace resting in the hollow of his throat catching the overhead lights in a way that makes David’s mouth go dry. “ _Oh, I just died in your arms tonight, it must have been some kind of kiss. I should have walked away_.”  
  
Cook turns the mic to the crowd again, and all around David a multitude of voices call out the words,  _I just died in your arms tonight_ , but he can’t, there’s something preventing him from opening his mouth, parting his lips to join in the song, something warm and aching and filling up his chest, pooling in his stomach, something urgent and terrifying and  _hot_ , and he  _wants_ , fiercely, to follow the instincts he’d ignored last night.  
  
He barely notices as Cook and the rest of the guys crash to the end of the song, the bar erupting in cheers and whistles as they wave to the crowd, setting their instruments in their stands before clambering off stage. He feels like time’s slowed down, his mind lost in a red-hot haze, until rough fingers curl over his shoulder and he jumps, looking up to see Cook standing by his side, his expression a little pensive but also kind of strained, and he’s still breathing hard from his set, forehead and the hollow of his throat where his star-and-handcuffs necklace rests shining with sweat, and David stands up, choking out, “Cook? Um.” in a voice that he almost doesn’t recognize, thick and breathy in a way he usually only gets after a long run, or after singing his heart out on stage.  
  
“Neal,” Cook calls over his shoulder, his hand like a fire brand on David’s shoulder. “You mind if I skip out on the clean-up?”  
  
David thinks Neal looks at him but he’s not entirely sure, too busy staring at Cook, still feeling the strength of the music and that voice reverberating in the air and in his ears.  
  
“Yeah, okay,” Neal says, and he sounds totally amused, which would probably mortify David if he were in the right frame of mind, because he knows it’s obvious what he’s doing, the way he’s looking at Cook, like he wants to… like he  _really_ wants to –  
  
“C’mon, David.” Cook’s hand shifts from his shoulder to the back of his neck, his fingers curling against the skin, and David shivers. He doesn’t miss the way Cook’s eyes darken at the movement.  
  
“Have fun you two!” he hears someone call – probably Neal, or maybe Andy, but David doesn’t even care; he’s far too busy trying to focus on moving his feet, which is difficult enough as it is when he’s this distracted and nearly impossible with Cook’s warm weight pressed against his side.  
  
He doesn’t know what’s wrong with him; usually he’s more aware of what he’s doing and how he’s acting when he’s out in public, but right now – right now he doesn’t care, because he can still hear Cook’s voice in his ears, can still see the way Cook’s mouth had looked pressed up against the mic, the way Cook had looked at him like, like –  
  
Like he’s looking at him  _now_ , dark-eyed and intent, and when David licks his lips, nervous and anticipatory and a whole host of other emotions he can’t name, Cook follows the movement with his eyes, and oh gosh, David wants to kiss him.  
  
Their passage from  _Dublin’s_  to Cook’s truck is a blur, Cook’s hand warm against the nape of his neck the entire time, and when David slides into the passenger seat, he has to take a second to just breathe, to try and get a hold of himself, but the effort proves to be in vain as soon as Cook opens the driver’s side door and climbs in, because then all David breathes in is the scent of sweat and Cook’s cologne, and there’s no way he can just sit there like nothing is happening, _something_  is building, like, this tension? David can feel it, in his chest and throat and deep in his belly, and Cook’s profile, haloed in the soft light of the streetlamps outside, makes his breath catch in his throat.  
  
“Cook?” His voice is all weird still, so hoarse and breathy like he’s just finished a run, and he and Cook are just staring at each other, the truck silent and a little cold because Cook hasn’t started the engine yet, and David thinks,  _just go for it, just **do**  something_.  
  
He leans across the seat, the armrest digging into his side, and reaches with hands that shake only a little to press the tips of his fingers to Cook’s jaw. He feels like he’s breathing really loudly, but Cook is, too, and he’s watching David, his eyes gone soft and half-lidded, like they’re about to close. David’s nails scratch lightly through Cook’s neatly-trimmed beard, the hair soft against his fingertips, and he’s kind of amazed that Cook’s letting him do this, that he hasn’t said anything yet or tried to move away. If anything he’s moving  _closer_ , his mouth slack as David curls his fingers, curving his palms around Cook’s cheeks.  
  
“You gonna kiss me, Archuleta?” he asks, his bottom lip catching on the curve of David’s thumbs, and oh gosh, David feels the last thread of his self-control snap and shatter like glass at the rough cadence of Cook’s voice; he’s nodding his head, leaning forward, his heart pounding so loud and so fast he’s sure Cook can hear it.  
  
“Can I?” David has to ask, has to be sure, and when Cook huffs out “Yeah, David,  _yes_ ” against his mouth, he breaches the scant distance between them and – finally, finally – presses his lips to Cook’s. Holds them there, soft pressure, and wants to sigh with how good even that light touch feels. He pulls back after a moment, but it isn’t long before he’s leaning back in, and for the next few minutes he’s lost in a haze, his eyes sliding closed, their lips turning soft and slick the longer they kiss.  
  
But then he feels Cook’s hands on his face, rough fingers curling against his cheeks, a palm running along his neck to cup the back of his head, and David makes a sound between their mouths, a wet sort of gasp, as Cook’s mouth opens against his, and that’s Cook’s  _tongue_ , sweeping across the seam of David’s lips, and his body’s moving on its own, it seems, pressing forward, his own lips parting, and after that it’s nothing but the press and swell of Cook’s tongue against his, and Cook’s teeth – oh  _gosh_  – nibbling at his bottom lip, and somehow David’s hands end up in Cook’s hair without his say-so, his fingers winding through the slightly sweaty strands, and Cook’s quiet groan as David’s fingers catch and pull, just a little, is – well.  
  
When they eventually pull back, both of them breathing hard, David bites back a groan of his own at Cook’s face, his hair mussed from David’s fingers running through it and his lips kiss-swollen and  _red_.  
  
“You alright?” Cook asks, after a long moment, his voice hoarse. He runs his thumb along David’s bottom lip, following the movement with his eyes, and David thinks,  _he wants to kiss me again_ , which would be – David wants –  
  
He doesn’t bother answering, choosing instead to lean back up and slant their mouths together again; if Cook’s fingers tightening against the nape of his neck are anything to go by, David thinks his choice is a welcome one. And then he stops thinking altogether.  
  
  
  
David expects things to feel awkward, or tense, or something when they get back to Cook’s apartment. The ride back had been silent, but not uncomfortable. David had felt Cook’s eyes on him throughout the relatively short drive, and he’d been hard-pressed not to stare at the other man himself, wanting to reach over and grab his hand, or slide a palm over his thigh – though he blushes to think of that particular urge – or  _something_. Their contact during the kiss (well, multiple kisses, which had left David hot and tingling and aware of every point of his body that had been touching Cook’s) had been – well. He wanted more of it.  
  
When Cook unlocks his door and ushers David inside, he’s not really sure what he expects, honestly. He only knows that he really wants to kiss Cook again, and he thinks, with the way Cook’s looking at him, that he’s not the only one.  
  
David’s never been particularly forward, or aggressive, or whatever, but he finds himself curling his fingers into Cook’s jacket just inside the doorway, and kind of – kind of pushing up against the other man, backing him up toward the wall, and leaning  _up_ , and  _oh_  –  
  
Cook’s hands curl over his hips as they kiss, running slowly up and down his sides, and David shivers even as heat floods through his body, because Cook’s hands are big, and warm, and his fingers keep catching on David’s belt loops. His lips are soft and slick, and the way he’s tilting David’s head back, biting gently at his bottom lip and pushing his tongue through to tangle with David’s –  
  
David feels a little out of control, feverish, his hands clenched in Cook’s jacket and these  _sounds_  coming out of his mouth, little gasps and whimpers that he can’t hold back. He doesn’t think Cook minds, though; each time he makes a noise Cook just holds him closer, the kiss turning messier, less refined, like Cook’s losing control, too.  
  
Somehow they make their way over to the sofa, sinking down onto the cushions, and David pulls away with a muffled gasp, breathing hard as Cook’s lips move away from his mouth, trailing along his jawline and up to his ear.  
  
“Is this okay?” he asks, his breath hot against David’s ear, and David nods, biting at his lip as he squirms beneath Cook’s larger frame.  
  
He almost whines as Cook moves away – which, gosh, that’s embarrassing – and when his attempt to curl his hands in Cook’s jacket and pull him back down doesn’t give him the result he wants, David stares confusedly up at the other man. “Cook, what – ?”  
  
Cook’s hair is even crazier than it had been in the truck, his face flushed and his lips swollen and soft-looking. He’s breathing hard, one hand curled around the back of the couch by David’s head and the other pressed to David’s chest, fingertips warm against the hollow of his throat.  
  
“I need you to tell me,” he says, and oh gosh, his voice is so gravelly and low, because of him, because Cook’s been kissing  _him_ , and it’s just. It’s making David want to do something crazy, or bold, like curl his fingers in the links of Cook’s necklace and pull him back down, or – “I need you to tell me if this is okay, or if I need to stop. If anything I do makes you uncomfortable – “  
  
“Oh my gosh, you’re being difficult.” David pulls on Cook’s jacket, staring up at him with half-lidded eyes, and okay, maybe he’s trying to look all, whatever, appealing (and probably just looking really dumb), and he appreciates that Cook’s trying to be all gentlemanly and not make David uncomfortable, but right now all David wants is for Cook to stop talking. “Cook, just kiss me, okay? I want this, I promise. I have for, um – “ He loses steam for a moment, because okay, Cook knows by now that David likes him, the whole ‘kissing him in the truck’ thing had probably made that obvious, but actually putting voice to it is still a little scary. “I have for a while.”  
  
Cook’s eyes go dark and a little hazy. He moves the hand on David’s chest to cup his chin, his callused thumb stroking David’s cheek. “How long is a while?”  
  
David narrows his eyes. “You’re totally taking advantage of my vulnerable state here,” he says, because Cook totally is, making David talk about his feelings when he really wants to get back to having Cook’s lips on his face, thanks.  
  
Cook laughs, and it’s different from his usual full-bodied ones, more low and um, sexy. “C’mon, David,” he says, pressing their foreheads together, and okay, Cook’s stupidly pretty eyes are not helping the situation at all. “Enquiring minds want to know.”  
  
David mumbles, “Our first Skype call,” and finally gives in to the urge to curl his fingers in the links of Cook’s necklace, the steel warm against his skin. “When you sang for me? Um, that’s when I knew.”  
  
And oh, if he thought Cook’s eyes were distracting before it’s nothing compared to the way they’re staring at David now, but oh gosh,  _finally_  Cook’s moving forward, his lips reclaiming their previous spot against David’s ear, and even if he’s expecting it, the first swipe of Cook’s tongue along his lobe is almost too much to handle, a sensory overload he’s not equipped to deal with.  
  
Cook’s hand resumes its stroking motion along his chest, and it helps, a little, keeps him from feeling too out of control, helps him breathe even as Cook’s lips and tongue and teeth continue to work sensually at his ear.  
  
It never goes beyond his belt buckle, staying firmly north of his waistline, and it’s – it’s good, because David doesn’t think he could handle it if Cook tried to move things, um, in that direction, knows he’s nowhere near ready for that.  
  
When he can feel his body getting too hot, when the frantic movements of Cook’s lips against his ear – and then later on his jaw, and his mouth – start to affect him in a more than noticeable way, David pulls back, slumping into the sofa cushions and breathing out, “Um, Cook? Can we – ?”  
  
He’s a little afraid Cook’s going to make some sort of protest, but all the other man does is laugh softly and press one final, chaste kiss to David’s forehead, curling up against him and tucking his head beneath David’s chin. His breathing is a little labored, too, like he’s just as affected as David is, and they spend a moment in comfortable silence, letting their heartbeats slow.  
  
“When, um, when did you know?” He has to clear his voice as Cook pulls back a little to look at him. “You know… that you wanted to… ?”  
  
“Kiss you?” Cook asks, all blunt, and David nods. “Since you first walked into my bar.”  
  
David blinks, completely taken aback. “Wait, what? Really?”  
  
Cook starts laughing ( _again_ , and really, what is it that David says all the time that’s so funny?) but he trails off as soon as he gets a good look at David’s face. “Wait. You seriously didn’t realize… ?” He rubs a hand over his face, and okay, this time his laughter sounds a little, um, hysterical.  
  
“Cook, what – ?”  
  
“Oh my god,” Cook mumbles, his chin moving against David’s shoulder. “Oh my  _god_ , you had no idea, did you?”  
  
David huffs, moving to wrap his hand around Cook’s chin so he can tilt his face up. “No idea about  _what_ , Cook?”  
  
“David, I was  _flirting_  with you, you big dork.” Cook collapses into giggles (seriously,  _giggles_ ) at the look on David’s face, which is part astonishment but mostly confusion, because what? Cook wasn’t – what?  
  
“What?” David asks, which just sets Cook off again.  
  
“David, the way I kept checking on you, even when your glass was full? The jokes? The way I kept talking to you? What did you think all of that  _was_?”  
  
David’s eyes grow wide. “I – I didn’t. I thought you were just being  _nice_!”  
  
Cook laughs so hard David can feel his shoulders shaking with the force of his mirth; he hides his face in the crook of David’s neck until his trembling subsides, David slack-jawed the entire time, unsure what to think, and when Cook pulls back there are tears in his eyes.  
  
“Jesus,” he rasps, wiping his eyes. “I love you, man.”  
  
David swallows audibly at the words, and it’s – he knows Cook doesn’t mean it like  _that_ , but it still makes his heart flutter in a totally distracting way, and Cook’s flushed, happy, ridiculously pretty face is not helping matters in the least.  
  
“I really don’t know what’s so funny,” he says finally, and Cook shakes his head fondly, running his fingers through David’s hair (which is  _cheating_ , because David’s body slumps into the sofa cushions in about two seconds flat, his eyes sliding closed at the soothing motion.)  
  
“It’s not so much funny as cute,” Cook admits, voice low, and David doesn’t even bother to dignify that with a response; he kind of doubts Cook would listen to his protests anyway, and it’s so much nicer to just shift over so his head can rest against Cook’s broad shoulder, and to curl his legs up on the couch.  
  
He feels the brush of Cook’s lips across his forehead, and a muffled “Goodnight, Arch,” mumbled against his ear, but he drifts off to sleep before he can reply.

  
//

  
He wakes in the morning with Cook’s arm around him, both of them spread out on the couch with Cook curled along his back. Dublin’s on the floor, snuffling into his folded paws, and for a moment David soaks it all in, the warmth and contentment leaving him loose-limbed and sleepy-eyed, Cook’s deep breaths soft and soothing against the shell of his ear.  
  
He shifts a little, stretching his legs, and Cook rumbles quietly against the back of his neck, stirring.  
  
“W’at time s’it?” he mumbles, the words barely discernable.  
  
David stretches his hand to tap a button on his phone, discarded on the coffee table sometime last night. The screen lights up with the numbers  _10:13_.  
  
“Too early,” Cook groans after David relates the time, and shuffles around until he’s leaning over David, his eyes half-closed as he peers at the younger man. “Why are you awake?”  
  
David bites back a laugh at Cook’s messy hair, flattened on one side and sticking up on the other. “I just woke up? Also, this is totally sleeping in for me.” Usually he’s up around seven o’clock to run; he feels a little bad for missing it so many mornings in a row, but Cook’s adorably confused face kind of makes up for it.  
  
“Knew you were a morning person,” Cook groans piteously, and then narrows his eyes, leaning down towards David’s mouth.  
  
David leans up, unconsciously bracing himself for a kiss, but all Cook does is press slightly dry lips to his forehead, smirking lazily at the look on David’s face.  
  
“Mornin’ breath,” he says, hiding a yawn in the palm of his hand. “Don’t think you wanna deal with that, Arch, no matter how sexy you find my bedhead.”  
  
David giggles as Cook extracts himself from the couch, heading to the kitchen with faint entreaties for caffeine. “It really is, um, attractive,” he calls to Cook’s back, and grins cheekily as Cook’s hand drifts past the wall leading into the kitchen, his middle finger raised.  
  
  
  
“Are you sure you don’t want to go out?” Cook asks for the third time in as many minutes, pausing his strumming to stare quizzically at David.  
  
“Cook,” David says, his voice firm. “I told you, I’m totally okay with staying in today.”  
  
“Yeah, but it’s your last day. Don’t you want to go out to a movie or sight-see or… something?”  
  
David keeps his eyes trained on Dublin, who’s fighting to take the dog toy from David’s hand. “I kind of just want to hang out with you,” he says softly, tacking on a hasty, “if that’s okay?”  
  
There’s a brief absence of sound, during which David has to try very hard not to look at Cook, and then the soft strains of guitar music kick back up again. David shoots a quick glance at Cook out of the corner of his eye, and basks in the soft, pleased smile on the older man’s lips.  
  
For a moment Cook seems to be playing a random assortment of notes, nothing David recognizes, but something resembling a purposeful arrangement slowly begins to take form, and a smile curls his lips as David begins to hum along.  
  
_Welcome to your life_ ,” he sings softly, catching Cook’s eye. “ _There’s no turning back. Even while we sleep we will find you_.”  
  
Cook joins in on  _Acting on your best behavior, turn your back on mother nature_ , and their voices blend effortlessly on _Everybody wants to rule the world_.  
  
It’s actually kind of amazing how well their voices mix, harmonizing but not overshadowing the other, and they spend the rest of the morning throwing out song suggestions to each other, from Chad Kroeger to the Beatles to Collective Soul, until Cook settles his palm over the guitar strings and just looks at David.  
  
“Your voice is a fucking gift, Arch,” he says, and the atmosphere is heavy suddenly, like last night before they’d stumbled out of the bar, and David finds himself sliding closer on the living room floor, to where Cook’s sitting in front of the sofa, and the guitar presses uncomfortably into his neck as he leans over and presses his lips to Cook’s.  
  
He can hear himself breathing, can hear Cook shifting to meet him, sliding a hand over the curve of David’s cheek and parting his lips for David’s tongue, which curls shyly into his open mouth. Their rough exhalations and the slick soft sounds of their kissing combine to form a different sort of music, less practiced but sweeter for it, and David could spend hours like this, days, maybe, close and sure and warm.  
  
  
  
They spend the rest of the day camped out on the living room sofa, making their way through Cook’s extensive DVD collection or lost in conversation. David tells Cook about the two years he spent in Chile, and all of the work he did as a missionary, about the people and the places and the  _food_ , which leads to Cook mentioning that oh yeah, there  _is_  a Thai place around here that delivers, all teasing grin and sideways glances, and David pretty much demands that they have Thai food for dinner, because how could they not?  
  
They eat spicy curry and spring rolls and pad thai, and David totally doesn’t rub it in when Cook admits that he likes it all, and the atmosphere is warm and comfortable and  _nice_ , and David knows – it’s sitting in the back of his mind that he’s leaving tomorrow, that he won’t see Cook on anything but a computer screen for who knows how long, and he thinks Cook notices how he starts moving his food around on his plate, listless and a little down despite himself, because the older man swipes his half-eaten plate of pad thai and carts the other used dishes and cartons to the kitchen before returning and pulling David to his feet.  
  
“Come with me?” he asks, tugging gently, and David grabs for his coat as Cook leads him out the door and to his truck.  
  
They wind up at  _Dublin’s_ , and as Cook opens the door for him David notices first off that the place is empty – empty, that is, aside from a familiar group of men clustered around the bar.  
  
“It’s about time,” Neal calls, raising an amber-colored bottle in greeting. “Get your asses over here already.”  
  
“I asked them to close up early,” Cook explains as they hang their coats by the door, his hand warm on David’s back when they head toward the bar. “I figured we could both use the distraction.”  
  
Neal snorts. “And  _we_  figured you could use some time around people who aren’t Dave,” he says, before his lips curl into a smirk over the rim of his beer. “But then again, maybe we were wrong. Nice neck, Archuleta.”  
  
David blinks. “Huh?” He rubs his hand over the side of his neck, feeling nothing out of the ordinary, and turns to stare questioningly at Cook. “Is there something on my – ?” His voice kind of fizzles and dies in his throat as he stares at Cook, whose t-shirt does nothing to add the dark, obvious marks on his neck. And if Cook has them, it stands to reason that David does, too. “Oh. Oh gosh. Um.”  
  
Neal’s head slumps onto his folded arms on the bar, his shoulders shaking, and the rest of the guys aren’t doing such a bang up job of hiding their own amusement, either, though at least Monty’s turned his back on them to mess with various bottles behind the bar.  
  
“Don’t listen to them, Archie,” Cook says lightly, sliding into a stool and patting the one beside him. “They’re all just jealous.”  
  
“Of you or Archie?” Andy asks, grinning behind his own beer and shooting a wink at David that makes him feel – strangely enough – more at ease.  
  
“Well, of course you’d be jealous of  _me_ ,” Cook says matter-of-factly, his arm falling around David’s shoulder as the younger man slides onto the stool beside his. “I’d question your tastes if you weren’t. But I know Neal’s always had a thing for me, so – “  
  
David can’t help but giggle at the sour look on Neal’s face, and the way the blond pushes his nearly-empty beer away.  
  
“Something stronger, Monty,” he says, his lips twisted. “I fucking need it after the godawful mental image that sentence just put in my head. Jesus Christ, Dave.”  
  
Monty plucks two shot glasses down onto the bar in front of Neal, pouring some sort of dark amber liquid in the glasses. “You want anything, David?” he asks, returning the bottle to the counter.  
  
David asks for a water, and it’s nice that no one questions him, or tries to coax him into trying something stronger; Monty just slides the glass over to him, ice cubes tinkling, and David settles into Cook’s side while the guys descend into light-hearted conversation. He finds himself rubbing a hand along his neck, still a little embarrassed that he’d been so oblivious about the marks; he wonders what they look like, though, if they’re dark like Cook’s, and where they might be scattered along his neck. Probably behind his ears, he thinks, remembering the way Cook had pressed his mouth to those spots last night. Maybe at the hollow of his throat, too, or beneath his jaw.  
  
“Arch?”  
  
David jumps, red suffusing his face as he glances at Cook, who’s staring at him fondly. “Um, yes? I mean, what?” he asks, his face and stomach a little warm at the path his thoughts had been taking.  
  
Cook laughs, thankfully, used to David’s spacey-ness by now. “Where’d you go?” he asks, and David bites his tongue before he says something embarrassing, like  _Your mouth on my neck_  or  _The marks you left, which I kind of want to see_.  
  
Instead he shrugs his shoulders and says, “Just thinking, that’s all.”  
  
Cook nudges him gently, his eyes bright. “Good thoughts, I hope?”  
  
In lieu of answering, David breaches the scant distance between them and presses a brief, chaste kiss to Cook’s lips. He hears more than sees Neal slap his hand on the bar, calling piteously for “Something  _stronger_ , Monty, goddamn,” and he and Cook share a mischievous grin before leaning back in for more.  
  
“Monty,  _hurry_!”  
  
  
  
On his way back from the restroom (where he totally did not spend five minutes staring wondrously at the line of dark marks scattered along his throat and under his jaw) David finds himself lingering by the stage. The overhead lights are on, but dimmed, and he settles on the smooth wooden surface, leaning back onto his hands as he stares out at the bar, taking in the lights and the faint scent of alcohol and smoke, as well as the sight of Cook and the guys clustered around the counter, talking and laughing.  
  
The atmosphere is warm, and easy. Comforting. David feels at home here, strangely enough, something he never would have anticipated the night he’d stepped into  _Dublin’s_  for the first time.  
  
Cook spots him after a moment, heading over to the stage with his fingers wrapped loosely around a bottle of beer, and he hefts himself up onto the surface with a sigh.  
  
“Back to where it all began,” he says softly, grinning at David.  
  
He could be talking about more than one thing, David realizes – the first time they met, or even the first time he heard Cook sing, live and in-person. It strikes him that both major shifts in their relationship (from the very beginning of their friendship to last night when he’d kissed Cook for the first time) happened here, in this bar, and his affection for the place ratchets up a couple of notches.  
  
“I’m glad I came in here,” David says, taking in the bar area, the stool where he first sat that cold night months ago. “I almost didn’t, you know? I wasn’t supposed to leave the hotel. Well, I wasn’t supposed to leave and not tell anybody.”  
  
Cook’s watching him silently, leaning back on his hands, and he shakes his head fondly at David’s little revelation. “No surprise there. I always knew you were a rebel, Archie.”  
  
“ _I_  didn’t,” David says, and laughs. “I didn’t really think I had it in me, actually. Disobeying orders and everything.”  
  
“Hey.” Cook nudges their shoulders together. “You’re more than you think you are, Arch.”  
  
David doesn’t protest, doesn’t want to. He’s learned a few things since he was last here. “I’m starting to see that, now,” he says, and twines his fingers around Cook’s.  
  
They sit in the soft glow of the overhead stage lights, palm to palm, and even with his impending departure David feels a sense of contentment, of peace, along with the fierce burst of affection and warmth which Cook always seems to bring out in him.  
  
Before they leave, Cook curls his hands around the clasp of his necklace, the same one he’d worn the night before, a star-and-handcuffs linked together on a stainless steel chain. He loops the chain over David’s neck, tucking it securely beneath his collared shirt, and David presses his hand to his throat, feeling the indent of the tiny links and the beat of his heart, hard and fast.  
  
He kisses Cook in the dim stage lights and resolves that this, too, is just another beginning.

  
//

  
David slumps into his seat on the plane with a sigh, staring out the window at the rainy Missouri skyline.  
  
Saying goodbye to Cook at the security gate had been harder than he expected; Cook had gotten them to the airport two hours early, and they’d sat in the truck for at least half an hour, kissing wetly in the parking lot, desperation prickling beneath David’s skin each time he caught a glimpse of the radio clock, ticking closer and closer to the time he would have to board his plane.  
  
His lips had been red and swollen by the time they’d finally pulled apart, and he’d wrapped his arms around Cook’s waist for the longest time, his forehead pressed to Cook’s chest as they breathed, not saying anything until the clock had struck 10:30, and David had half an hour to make it to his gate.  
  
“Don’t cry,” Cook had told him at security. “You cry, and then I’ll cry, and no one wants to see that.”  
  
David had tried to smile; he knew Cook was trying to lighten the mood for his sake. He must not have done such a good job, because Cook’s teasing grin had wavered, and he’d opened his arms silently, David falling into his embrace with a watery sigh.  
  
“C’mon, it’s not like we’re never gonna see each other again, Arch. You’re not getting rid of me now, no way.”  
  
“I know,” David had mumbled into Cook’s shirt, and allowed himself to be pushed gently away despite his desire not to move a single inch.  
  
“Hey, in a few weeks your tour will be over, right? You can always come back, you know. Or hell, I’ll come out to visit you. I’ve always wanted to see L.A.” He’d tapped David’s chest, right above where his necklace rested in the hollow of David’s throat, and David had smiled, for real that time, and he’d kept that promise in mind, even as Cook pressed a brief kiss to his forehead when no one was looking, murmuring, “See you later, Archie,” in his ear before sending him on his way.  
  
The memory of Cook’s face and voice and the press of his lips stays with him as the plane taxies away from the runaway, and he says goodbye to Missouri (only for now, he reminds himself) with his fingers curled in the star-and-handcuffs necklace, his thoughts turned to the person who gave it to him.

  
//

  
It’s not as difficult as he thought it would be, settling back into his hectic schedule. He misses the week of (relative) peace and quiet, both at his mother’s house and then later at Cook’s, but he’s grown used to the daily hustle and bustle of concert rehearsal and traveling, and it’s easy to slip back into that mindset where he’s constantly on the go.  
  
There’s an added bounce to his step that hadn’t been there before, though, an added sense of excitement to the process of putting on shows, meeting fans, arriving in each new city. David has a feeling it has something to do with the fact that the end of tour is in sight; in a few weeks he’ll put on his last show in New York, and then –  
  
Well, Cook  _had_  said he’d always wanted to see L.A, so.  
  
There’s a new awareness to his and Cook’s interactions now, after that week in Missouri. Nothing about their daily texts or occasional Skype calls really changes, per se; there’s just an added sense of  _more_  to the way they talk to each other. Cook doesn’t try quite so hard (or, um, at all) to hide his flirtatious remarks behind a veneer of friendly teasing, and more often than not David has to hide his cell phone when he’s in the presence of his band because oh my gosh, Cook is shameless and sends him texts that are totally inappropriate (but also, um. Yeah.)  
  
He no longer questions the warm, shivery clench in his stomach when Cook says something particularly bold, or flirtatious, just as he no longer bites his tongue around the words he wants to say in response, reveling quietly in the power he has to either strike Cook speechless, or make him burst into that full-bodied laughter that David loves so much.  
  
The change in David’s demeanor doesn’t go unnoticed by the band, and he catches Kendra shooting him these looks every once in a while, contemplative and curious. It doesn’t surprise him when she ducks into his dressing room one day while they’re in Richmond preparing for a show, a no-nonsense expression on her face as she sits beside him on the sofa.  
  
“Okay, David,” she says, hands on her knees. “Spill.”  
  
He tries to feign confusion, but his keyboardist isn’t having any of it.  
  
“Don’t even try the faux-innocent act with me,” she says, raising an eyebrow. “I’ve been around you long enough to know when it’s real and when you’re just trying to avoid the issue.”  
  
David sighs, dropping the act; she’s right, of course, and he’s honestly surprised she’s let him get away with it for as long as she has.  
  
Kendra tilts her head. “Is it a girl?” she asks.  
  
“What? I – no!”  
  
“Okay… Is it a boy?”  
  
David sputters, but he doesn’t exactly  _deny_  it, so.  
  
Kendra’s eyes go wide. “Oh man, it is, isn’t it? I knew it!”  
  
David sputters (again). “What do you mean you  _knew_?  _I_  didn’t even know!”  
  
Kendra laughs, slumping against the sofa cushions. “Well, okay, I didn’t know it was a  _guy_  that had you all spacey and distracted – moreso than usual, anyway.” Before David can take offense to that, she continues with, “But I figured it was some _one_  rather than anything else; you’ve had that whole ‘raging crush’ vibe about you the last few weeks.”  
  
“I have not,” David protests, though his voice comes out far less sure than he’d meant it to.  
  
Kendra snorts. “Uh, yeah, you weren’t really fooling anybody, you know. The way you kept grinning at your phone every time you got a text? Or all the times you ditched us to head back to the bunk or your room early? Granted, I figured it was maybe one of those Disney chicks the label keeps trying to sic on you, not a guy. It’s not anybody from Disney, is it?”  
  
David laughs. “No, it’s not. It’s, um… kind of a long story, actually?”  
  
Kendra sprawls pointedly across her side of the couch. “I’m all ears, David.”  
  
  
  
Thankfully Kendra doesn’t give him too much flack when he tells her about sneaking out of the hotel (“I’m all for a little bit of rebellion, but  _tell_  somebody next time, would you?”), though she does tease him mercilessly about his obliviousness to Cook’s flirting (“I know you hate it, but I’m seriously fighting the urge to say ‘Aww’ right now, you know that, right?”)  
  
She makes him show her a photo of Cook, and he settles on one of the ones they’d taken that last night at the bar, he and Cook smiling widely at the camera, their cheeks pressed together.  
  
It might be a little weird, but he feels almost proud of the way her eyebrows shoot up into her hairline, along with the way she whistles, low and impressed.  
  
“Way to go, David,” she says, bumping her shoulder against his, and David’s succinct, “Thank you,” has them both bursting into laughter.  
  
  
  
_David Archuleta – 5:03 PM_  
  
Kendra said to tell you she gives us her blessing  
  
_5:04 PM_  
  
and that she’s impressed that i managed to snag you  
  
_5:05 PM_  
  
(she’s leaning over my shoulder as i type this)  
  
_5:06 PM_  
  
oh, and “if you break him, i’ll break you.” um, she’s kidding, i think? haha  
  
_Cook – 4:08 PM_  
  
Tell her she has excellent taste ;)  
  
_4:10 PM_  
  
And that she has nothing to worry about.  
  
_4:11 PM_  
  
<3

//

He can tell something’s wrong as soon as he gets on the bus.  
  
The band’s all sitting at the small foldout table in what serves as the kitchen area, clustered around an open laptop, and when they see David their eyes go a little wide, and Mike angles the screen away so David can’t see it.  
  
“Um, hey,” he says, a little unsurely. “What’s going on?”  
  
No one seems to want to answer him; they all exchange wayward glances, and the ensuing silence does absolutely nothing for David’s state of mind.  
  
It’s Mike that eventually answers, his eyes darting to and from David’s face. “It’s uh… Look, man, maybe you should talk to Angie before – “  
  
“Just show him,” Kendra interjects. “He’s gotta find out sooner or later.”  
  
David starts forward, unease settling thick in his stomach. “Guys, what is it?”  
  
Mike turns the laptop around so David can see the screen, and the bold headline written across the top of the page immediately catches his eye.  
  
**Idol’s Golden Boy Caught in Romantic Rendezvous… with Another Man?!**.  
  
For a minute all he can do is stare at the words, not really comprehending what they mean, but then he sees the photo underneath, a grainy shot of him and Cook – from the airport the day that David left Missouri, judging by their clothes, and he immediately feels stupid, knows he should have been looking out for any cameraphones aimed at them, he should have been more  _careful_  – and his knees almost buckle underneath him.  
  
“What – “ he croaks, reaching for the screen, his eyes burning because he’s not blinking, just staring at the photo, he and Cook standing by the security gate, Cook’s hand on his arm, the older man turned toward him. “What is this?”  
  
Kendra rubs the back of her head, looking uncomfortable. “Someone sent the link to Angie. She was here, earlier, looking for you. It’s… Look, David, it’s just some piece of crap gossip site. No one’s gonna believe any of it.”  
  
David’s not even listening, too busy scanning the article. It’s all conjecture, mostly, nothing real, but there are other photos, more than a few of David on his phone, grinning at the screen, which is fine, they don’t mean anything, and there’s nothing else from his time in Missouri, thank god, not photos of he and Cook at the arcade or at  _Dublin’s_  (none of them in the car afterwards, when they’d kissed, and David nearly crumples with relief at that).  
  
But there are other photos, photos of  _Cook_ , one of him leaving  _Dublin’s_ , another of him and someone who looks like Neal climbing into Cook’s truck, and one of him staring confusedly at the camera, like he’d been blindsided by some paparazzi, and oh gosh, David can’t –  
  
_When asked about their relationship_ , he reads,  _the bartender offered no comment other than a succinct, “He’s a great guy. We’re friends.” But could there be more to the story than he’s letting on? How did these two become acquainted in the first place, one has to wonder._  
  
He scans the rest of the article, the guys silent around him, and it’s not, there’s no evidence other than what people want to see, the shot of them in the airport is – it’s normal, there’s nothing implied in it, they’re just  _talking_.  
  
And this site is known for its embellishments, and for spreading outlandish rumors. Kendra is right, it’s just a stupid gossip site, no one’s going to believe any of it, especially after Angie and the rest of his press team gets a hold of it, but still.  
  
That’s Cook’s face on the page, Cook’s photos being taken without his permission, and that’s  _David’s_  fault.  
  
The longer he stares at the screen, the sicker he feels. He slams the lid closed, not looking at any of the band, and turns blindly away.  
  
  
  
When Angie calls him an hour later, he sends her directly to voicemail. He’s sitting in the back of the bus in the lounge area, the sliding door shut, his knees drawn up to his chest as he stares at his phone. Cook hadn’t texted him about any of this, about being followed, or being photographed. David thinks back to their last conversation and tries to remember if Cook had sounded off, or upset, or anything, but he hadn’t. He’d sounded happy, like nothing was wrong, had been talking about the band’s upcoming session in the recording studio and asking David about his last show.  
  
Why hadn’t Cook said anything? And what was  _David_  supposed to say now?  
  
He doesn’t know. He knows exactly what Angie will say, though – that he has to stop talking to Cook, that he can’t do anything to jeopardize his future and his career. If it got out that he was in a relationship with another man… well, David had seen some of the comments on that article, and there hadn’t even been any proof, not really. He doesn’t want to think about what would have happened if someone had seen them kissing in Cook’s truck, how much worse the fallout would have been (for the both of them) had a photo of that been published.  
  
It opens up a possibility that David hadn’t even considered, hadn’t  _thought_  to consider. The media, what other people would think about their relationship… none of it had ever crossed his mind. He’s lucky that the article had been from such a disreputable site, rather than something more mainstream, but something like this… It could happen again.  
  
David’s used to paparazzi, used to people snapping his photo without his say-so; it’s an invasion of privacy that he hates, but he’s not new to any of it. Cook, though… Cook shouldn’t have to deal with it, especially not now, when things with the band are going so well. If David did anything to jeopardize their future, which is a possibility he can’t ignore, he’d never forgive himself.

//  


He doesn’t answer any of Cook’s texts for the next three days. He doesn’t know what to say, and he’s juggling both his manager and his publicist and their unending questions about who Cook is and what their relationship is and it’s just – he’s tired, and every time they bring Cook up he just feels sicker and sicker, his stomach rolling unpleasantly, because Cook was never meant to be a part of his press clippings in the morning, never meant to be considered some sort of, of _liability_  to his album sales, never meant to be talked about by people who don’t even know him, don’t know anything about him, and who think that it’s in David’s best interests to, to –

“If this gets out, David,” Angie tells him, her sharp fingernails curved around the manila file folder in her hands, full of printouts of the article and the resultant “media shitstorm,” as she’d called it, that had hit the web afterwards, “there’s no telling the ramifications it could have for your career. We’re keeping it contained for the most part, but we have to nip this in the bud before it gets worse.”

And it’s not – it’s not like anything’s even happened, is the thing. There are definitely some, um, unsavory comments floating around about the article, and about David (and  _Cook_ , which he doesn’t like to think about, at all), but no one’s really taking it seriously, his parents haven’t even called to talk to him about it, which means they haven’t gotten wind of it yet, thank god. And it’s not all bad, it seems. He’d caved and scrolled through some of the fan sites the other night and the fans – some of them, anyway – actually seem happy about it, if a little confused. They’re mostly just speculating about who Cook is, and what’s really going on.

“Angie,” Kari’s saying, her voice firm, and David looks up from his own press clippings just in time to see his publicist shoot a look at Angie that he’s never seen before, sharp and stern. “You’re making this out to be more of a big deal than it actually is.” She turns back to David, her gaze turning soft. “Listen, David. No matter what this article says, and no matter what your management wants you to do, this is your decision. We just want to make sure you’re protected.”

And he gets that, he does, but telling him to cut off ties with Cook is just – he can’t do that. He won’t.

“It’s my business,” he eventually says, pushing away from the table. “Cook is – he’s my friend, and I’m not going to stop talking to him just because of something some reporter says. So.”

No one stops him from leaving the conference room, no one even tries, and when he steps out of the hotel the air feels clearer, somehow. He feels lighter, like some burden has been lifted from his shoulders.

He’s riding the high of finally standing up for himself, of not acquiescing to someone else’s demands for once and he pulls out his phone, staring at the screen for half a moment of hesitation before pressing three on speed dial. The photo of him and Cook that he’d taken while he was in Missouri pops up on screen, Cook’s cheek pressed to his and both of them smiling at the camera, and David’s chest simultaneously tightens and loosens all at once.

Cook barely gets out a, “Hello?” before David’s barreling over his words.

“We have to talk,” he says, and there’s a beat of silence before Cook speaks again, his voice a little wary.

“Uh, those aren’t exactly the best words to hear after three days of ignoring my texts, Arch.”

“Oh, no, that’s not – “ David shakes his head, breathes out slowly, and starts again. “I’m not breaking up with you, Cook. I’m just. I know, okay? I know about the reporter, and the article, and why didn’t you  _say_  something?”

For a moment all he hears is Cook breathing softly on the other end of the line, and he paces outside of the hotel entrance, waiting for the other man to talk.

“I knew you’d worry,” Cook eventually says, and David almost rolls his eyes, because of course he would!

“Of course I would!” he says hotly. “Cook, you’re – with the band and everything, you can’t just – ”

“David,” Cook interrupts. “It’s fine. It’s not like one article is going to mess up my career or anything. That reporter was an idiot, and as soon as I realized he was following me I – and by I, I mean Neal – made sure he stopped. It’s really not a big deal.”

“Yes it is!” He’s starting to attract looks from the people going in and out of the hotel; David moves away from the entrance, finding a bench further down the street that looks out over a park to sink into. “He was following you around because of  _me_ , Cook, and taking pictures without your permission and it’s just – it’s everything that I hate having to deal with, all of these people asking questions they don’t have the right to, and taking photos, and I didn’t. I didn’t want you to have to deal with that, and now – “

“David,  _breathe_. C’mon, stop worrying so much, okay? Everything is fine. I’m good, the band’s good, nothing’s gotten messed up.” Cook pauses for a minute. “Is everything okay on your end? Shit, has something happened with the article, is that why you haven’t been talking to me – ?”

_Yes_. “No. I – no.”

Cook scoffs. “Archuleta, that was so not convincing.”

“My manager,” David eventually says. “She wants me to stop – to stop talking to you. She thinks you’re a liability.” The words taste sour in his mouth even as he says them.

“What do  _you_  think?” Cook asks, and David wishes his voice had been accusing, or wary, or anything other than effortlessly knowing, as if Cook somehow knows exactly what David had just done.

“I told her to forget it,” he whispers. “I told her it wasn’t anybody’s business but mine, and that you were my friend, and I just – I walked out. Of the meeting. I didn’t want to hear anything else they had to say.” And, because he’s on a roll apparently, he keeps going. “It felt good, doing that. Standing up for myself. I couldn’t let them – I didn’t want them talking about you, like that. You’re not a liability. You’re – “  _You’re everything_ , he wants to say, but he’s reached the limit of his bravado, and the words flutter restlessly in the hollow of his throat.

“I’m so proud of you, David,” Cook says, his voice low, and David wishes that Cook was here, that he’d been able to see it with his own eyes, the way David had walked out of that conference room without a backward glance. “Thank you, for standing up for me.”

A beat of silence goes by, and David’s trying to gather his nerve, because this part… This is the part he dreads, the words waiting on the tip of his tongue are the ones he wants to swallow back down, but he can’t, he needs to get them out.

“I just think,” he starts, and his breath kind of sticks in his throat, because he meant what he said to Angie, he wasn’t going to let others dictate what he was going to do anymore, but this isn’t even about that. He isn’t doing this for  _them_ , he’s doing it for  _Cook_ , and for himself, too. “Until the tour ends, I think we should… not talk as much? Just. So I can focus on getting through the end of the tour, and you can work on the album, and not have to worry about… about all this.”

There’s a brief pause, and when Cook asks, “Is that what you want, David?” David closes his eyes against the sound of his voice, resigned and blank, unhappy.

_No_ , he thinks. “Yes,” he says, his fingernails digging into the fabric of his jeans. “It’s only… it’s only for a few weeks,” he continues, a weak attempt to console the both of them. “And then… and then maybe I can come visit again? If you wanted.”

“Fuck, David,” Cook says roughly. “Of course I’d want that. Just. Take care of yourself, okay? Don’t let anybody give you shit for that article, and if they do – Look, I don’t care what anybody says, just call me. Or Neal. He’s pretty effective at getting the paps off a guy’s back.”

David chokes out a short, sharp burst of laughter, pressing the fingers of his free hand to his mouth to contain it. “Y-yeah, I’ll do that.”

“Hey, it’s only for a few weeks, right? And then you can fly out here and hang out with the guys, let us know what you think about the album. They’ll be happy to see you.” Cook’s voice settles into something softer; David wants to chase the sound of it through the phone line and the miles and miles between them. “ _I’ll_  be happy to see you.”

David presses his phone harder against his ear, closing his eyes, and he touches his palm to the front of his shirt, where Cook’s necklace rests against his throat. “Me, too,” he says, voice soft.

They stay on the line for another ten minutes, not really saying much, mostly just breathing, and it’s simultaneously soothing and distressing, because David knows as soon as they disconnect that that will be it. He tells himself it’s only for a few weeks, and he knows in the grand scheme of things that’s not so bad, he’ll be busy and Cook will be busy and time will pass quickly, it always does when he’s not thinking about it, but –

“Archie, it’ll be okay,” Cook says, and David holds on to the sound of his voice, nodding even though he doesn’t quite believe it himself.

//

  


  
The last show of the tour happens in New York.

David’s in a chair in front of a mirror, the makeup girl and stylist attacking his face and hair while he sits restlessly, his thumb rubbing along the clear face of his cell phone screen.

It’s been three weeks since he last spoke to Cook on the phone, and though they’ve exchanged a handful of texts since then it hasn’t been the same. David misses the hours of casual conversation that they had always so effortlessly been able to fall into, misses their late night Skype chats, misses listening to Cook talk about the band and their studio sessions and the hours spent huddled together in Cook’s apartment, penning lyrics.

Kendra had made it her mission in life to keep his mind off of he and Cook’s self-imposed separation; she’d started taking David’s phone from him whenever he’d get too maudlin, forcing him into the lounge on the bus or into her room on hotel nights to watch movies and eat junk food, and he appreciates it, especially since neither she nor the rest of the guys have ever told him to suck it up and stop whining about it.

It’s not the end of the world, and it’s not even like they broke up or anything, but it’s difficult to go from talking almost every day to barely at all, and he’s been counting down the days until he can fly back to Missouri, the tour wrapped up and over with.

One of the stagehands pokes her head around the door, chirping, “David? The meet and greets are waiting for you out front,” and David slips his phone back into his pocket, smoothing down his shirt before following her out.

The waiting fans herald his arrival with excited chatter and huge smiles, and David finds himself completely unable to resist smiling back. His fans’ enthusiasm has always been contagious, and tonight he wants to make the entire experience count, for them and for himself. It’s the last time he’ll be able to, after all, at least for a while.

He patiently stands through the whirlwind of autographs and photos and hugs, asking fans where they’re from and if they’re enjoying New York, and he doesn’t even notice anything’s out of the ordinary until the line dwindles down to the last person, the rest of the VIP passholders congregating around the theatre lobby.

“Oh my gosh!” The words burst out before he can contain them, his eyes wide as he takes in the man standing just a few feet away from him, duffle bag slung over one shoulder, his grin wide and lopsided.

“Well,” Cook says, his eyes crinkling in the corners. “Surprise?”

“What are you – “ David glances at the other people gathered around the lobby, the other people with VIP passes and a few members of his security team. The other fans keep glancing at Cook, some of them whispering to each other, though David can’t pick up on what they’re saying. He’s too distracted by the fact that Cook is  _here_ , in New York, wearing a VIP pass and grinning goofily at David.

David shuffles closer, fighting the urge to throw his arms around Cook’s neck and hold on. “What are you  _doing_  here?” he whispers.

“Wanted to see you,” Cook answers just as quietly, his grin fading into something softer, more intimate. “Granted, I’d planned to just meet you at your hotel after your show, but the guys – “ He shrugs his shoulders, laughing softly, and David nearly aches with how much he’s missed that sound. “Apparently Neal looked up your tour dates, and Monty and the others all pitched in for this.” He waves the VIP pass, and David lets out a watery laugh, feeling his affection for Cook’s bandmates growing by the second. “I came as soon as my plane touched down. Couldn’t wait to see you, Arch.”

It’d be totally inappropriate for David to lunge at Cook, yet the urge to do just that is so overwhelming that he nearly goes for it anyway. The renewed whispering of the gathered fans reminds him of just where he is, however, and he twists his fingers in the hem of his shirt and smiles at Cook instead, his vision a little blurry.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he says, his voice raspier with suppressed emotion, and he can tell that Cook knows exactly what he’s not saying.

“Well, hey,” Cook says, a little louder, and wraps his arm around David’s shoulder. “I know you’re probably in a rush, but. Could someone…?” He waves his phone at the crowd, and oh gosh, David bursts into laughter as a girl steps forward to take their photo.

“Hey,” Cook whispers, low enough so that only David can hear. “You think the guys spent their hard-earned money so I could just  _talk_  to David Archuleta? I think not!”

It can’t be a really flattering picture; David’s laughing too hard to try for even a semblance of a smile, and Cook’s not helping, making exaggerated expressions that just set David off more. Still, as he says goodbye to the fans a few minutes later, telling them he hopes they enjoy the show, he can’t help but steal one last glance at Cook, his smile bright and giddy as Cook curls his fingers in a wave before David disappears backstage.

 

 

He has no idea where Cook’s seat is, and the brightness of the stage lights prevent him from seeing more than the first few rows anyway. Still, David strives to make the show one to remember, pouring his heart into every performance; he feels light, buoyed up by the energy of the crowd, the screams of his name, because somewhere out there in that sea of people is Cook, and this is his last show, so David’s determined to make it a good one.

He’s sweaty and loose-limbed by the time they arrive at the last song, but he’s never felt better; it’s like he’s walking on air, so light he could float away, off the stage and into the atmosphere, and he’s settling behind his keyboard, fingers poised over the keys as he waits for the cue from his band. He’d taken them aside before the show, told them he wanted to change the last song, and they’d taken one look at him, the breadth of his smile, the way his eyes had been shining with barely suppressed mirth, so different from how he’d been the past few weeks, and barely batted an eye at his request.

He waits until the screams from the crowd have died down a little before addressing the audience, saying, “Okay, you guys. I wanted to slow it down a little for the last song. I hope you don’t mind?” A chorus of applause assures him that they don’t, and he laughs softly into the mic. “This song,” he continues, glancing at the crowd, feeling a bloom of warmth unfurling in his chest as he imagines a certain pair of hazel eyes on him, somewhere out there. “I want to dedicate it to everyone out there who feels a little overwhelmed sometimes, everyone who’s going through something that they feel they can’t control. I want everyone out there, who might be feeling lost, and lonely, to know that there’s always someone… someone who’s there to bring you back.”

He breathes in, exhales, and as the music starts, soft and slow, he raises his mouth to the mic and sings:

“ _Sittin’ all alone in your room  
Thinking that the world’s let you down  
All you ever wanted to do is trust  
Someone to always be around_.”

He feels the words down to his core in a way he hasn’t before, memories flooding his mind as he continues to croon softly into the mic; he’s remembering the months of exhaustion and loneliness, how hard he’d had to push to make it through those long nights on the bus, how lost he’d felt for such a long time, keeping everything inside because he didn’t want to burden anybody, didn’t know what to do to get himself out of the rut he’d found himself in.

“ _There’s somebody out there_ ,” he sings, “ _somebody somewhere, to show you the tenderness you need_.”

He’s remembering that night over three months ago, walking into  _Dublin’s_ , thinking he had nowhere to turn, wanting for just a moment to escape, to hide away from his troubles; remembers how effortlessly Cook had made him forget, for just a few hours, all of the worries that had sent him into the bar in the first place.

“ _It doesn’t have to hurt you forever, it doesn’t have to last too long_.”

He marvels at how much things have changed, how  _he’s_  changed; months ago he might have quelled under his management’s expectations, might have broken his ties with Cook because it was what was expected of him, what was wanted of him. But not now. It’s like his first step into  _Dublin’s_  – or even that first step out of his hotel room that night – had been the catalyst for everything.

“ _I want to be there when you’re in need_ ,” he sings, thinking of all the times that Cook had done just that, how David could call or text him and know, without even having to question it, that Cook would be there for him. “ _I would never be long if you were waiting_.” He hopes Cook knows he would do the same, that he’d be there if Cook needed him, that he didn’t have to keep things from David just because he thought they’d upset him, or worry him. He hopes Cook understands that, now.

“ _I’d give anything for you, anything at all_ ,” and oh, he means it with all of his heart; he knows what that means, he feels it in the deepest part of himself, the part he’s learned not to hide from anymore, and as he glances out at the crowd, his chest full to bursting with emotion, he hopes that Cook feels it, too.

“ _I think that it’s time that you knew it was me_.”

 

 

David has no idea who pulled it off (though he has a sneaking suspicion that it was a joint effort, if the way Kendra and Kari are grinning at him is any indication) but Cook’s waiting for him outside, the backlot of the venue cordoned off for the bus and blessedly devoid of the crowd still audible on the other side of the building.

David takes one look at him and is unable to wipe the wide smile off his face; he nearly runs to the other man’s side, wrapping his arms around Cook’s waist, not caring that he’s still totally gross and sweaty from performing and that his bandmates are just a few feet away.

“You gonna introduce us, David?” Kendra asks, her voice rich with amusement, and though David flushes a little with embarrassment, he only moves far enough to wrap an arm around Cook’s waist as he turns to his bandmates.

He introduces them one by one, and is instantly gratified by the easy way they all take to Cook; even if they  _had_  known about him beforehand, and had seemed to be okay with the fact that their lead singer was dating a guy, a part of David had worried, anyway.

“You guys were pretty amazing up there,” Cook is saying, and David basks in the praise for a moment (he loves his band, okay, and they’re all totally amazing) until Cook arches a brow at him and nudges his side. “And what were those dance moves, Archuleta? I don’t understand how DDR could ever rattle your nerves when you can move like  _that_.”

“Oh my gosh,” David mumbles; he never really plans to dance, or whatever, it’s just that the moment he’s on stage and the music’s moving through him he can’t help but move along to the beat.

“Wait, you actually got him to dance?” Fish asks, incredulous. “In public?” And okay, that just leads to a discussion about the infamous DDR incident back when he’d visited Cook in Missouri. It’s amid laughter at Cook’s retelling of David’s utter failure at the arcade games that they make their way onto the bus, and it’s – David’s thrilled that his band is getting along with Cook so well (even if it is kind of at his expense, at the moment) but it’s like… It’s been  _weeks_  since he flew to Missouri, which means it’s been weeks since he and Cook were actually in the same room together, and he’d kind of like to kiss his boyfriend.

Kendra must catch the looks he keeps shooting Cook, because she nudges Fish in the arm and raises an eyebrow, the two having a seemingly in depth conversation using only their facial expressions, and it’s only a few moments later that Kendra suggests heading out for some food.

A chorus of agreement echoes from the rest of the group, but David hangs back as they all begin filing back off the bus.

“I’m um, not very hungry,” he says, and a quick glance upward proves that yes, he has Cook’s full attention. “I mean, if you are we can totally go, but – “

“I’m good,” Cook says, and David shivers at the suddenly gritty sound of his voice. Kendra shoots him a grin and a wave as she follows the rest of the band off the bus, and before the door swings shut David catches the thumbs up she sends his way. Oh geez.

As soon as the door falls shut behind her, David feels Cook step up behind him and wrap his arms around David’s waist, his laugh rumbling through David’s body.

“I think I love your band,” he murmurs, tucking his chin into the crook of David’s neck, his beard soft and ticklish against David’s skin.

David turns to look at him, taking in Cook’s bright eyes and careless grin, and the words just fall out of his mouth, steady and clear. “I’m in love with you.”

The fear doesn’t come, the anxiety doesn’t cripple him like he’d thought it would. It’s the first time he’s ever said those words rather than just thinking them, but he doesn’t regret it. There’s a calmness that’s settling over him, a surety that lets him know he’s doing the right thing.

Cook’s looking at him like… like that night at  _Dublin’s_ , when he’d sung to David the first time without the aid of a computer screen, and the intensity should scare him, maybe, or make him nervous, but all David feels is calm and sure and irrevocably right, and when Cook’s fingers curl around his cheek, tilting his face into Cook’s kiss, David meets him halfway.

He doesn’t need to ask if Cook feels the same; it’s all there in the surety of his kiss, the warm touch of his fingers to David’s skin, the way he can feel Cook’s heart beating against his back, hard and fast.

It feels natural to turn in the circle of Cook’s arms, to push him gently backward, carefully navigating their way through the length of the bus, sharing kisses that surprise David with their chasteness, especially with the way his heart is racing in his chest.

They move past the bunks and into the lounge, and David takes a moment to shut the sliding doors before tugging Cook to the couch taking up the entire back wall. They fall against the cushions with muffled laughter, Cook settling over David’s supine form, his knees braced on either side of David’s thighs. He presses their foreheads together and curls his hands around David’s cheeks, his eyes bright and happy, and David melts at that look, at the warm weight of Cook on top of him, and even though he’s half-expecting it, the rumble of Cook’s voice saying, “I love you,” low and soft, brings tears to his eyes.

“Hey, none of that now, c’mon.” Cook swipes a jump below David’s eye, and though David’s laugh is a little watery, it’s also full of everything that he’s feeling, joy and amazement and the giddy happiness generated by Cook’s  _I love you_.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he whispers, and he knows he’s already said it, but some things just bear repeating. He still can’t believe that Cook is  _here_ , and he covers the other man’s hands with his own, the curve of Cook’s rings warm against his skin. “Thank you, for coming all this way.”

Cook shakes his head. “It was your last show, Archie. You think I was gonna miss that if I could help it? No way. And – “ He leans down to press a warm, chaste kiss against David’s lips, and David swallows as he pulls away, wanting more. “ – have I mentioned how fucking amazing you were up there?”

A heady flush spreads along David’s cheekbones, warms his face. “You think so?” he asks, happy to hear the praise, because he had felt so attuned to the music tonight, connected in a way he’d been struggling with the last few months, and to end the tour on a strong note, feeling like his connection with the universe had finally realigned or something, leaves him thrumming with satisfaction.

“You already know I think your voice is amazing,” Cook continues, and David doesn’t miss the way his voice has lowered, the teasing smirk curling his lips. “But the way you looked on stage, sweating and confident and playing the crowd like that? Damn, Archie.”

Cook’s voice sends a hot curl of arousal licking down David’s spine; he shifts minutely on the couch, his stomach brushing against Cook’s, and he doesn’t miss the way Cook’s breath catches at the movement.

“Cook,” he says, moving his hands to press against Cook’s chest and curling his fingers into Cook’s t-shirt. “Stop talking, okay?”

Cook huffs out a laugh against his lips. “Anything for you, Archie,” he says lowly, and seals their lips together.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  
_one year later_

Another city, another show.

David sneaks in during the first song, waving hello to Cook’s tour manager as he settles into a spot toward the side of the stage, safely hidden from the prying eyes of the crowd.

Cook’s got his mouth pressed to the mic, crooning about falling in love like an avalanche, his eyes dark and heavy-lidded, and David feels his entire body thrum at the sight of his boyfriend, confident and assured and completely at home on the wide theatre stage.

The distance that had kept them separated for weeks, Cook and the band rehearsing for the tour and David busy with writing on his second book, falls away with the realization that he’s here, at Cook’s first show, and his boyfriend is a whirlwind of energy and enthusiasm and laughter, his voice filling the theatre like nothing David has ever heard before. He’s bantering with the crowd, making them laugh and scream and cry, and they’re singing his words back to him at the top of their lungs, making him sweat and shake and fall to his knees, and David remembers that feeling, the amazement and disbelief that your music is resonating with so many people.

He loves that Cook gets to experience that now, and that he’s here to witness the first of many shows just like this, the audience and the band and Cook’s low, sultry voice combining to fill the venue with sound.

It’s as the band’s crashing to the end of  _Kiss On the Neck_  that Cook glances toward the side of the stage; his eyes widen as David grins and waves, and he barks out a startled laugh, the sound of it echoing in the cavernous space. It’s another moment before he’s able to address the crowd, asking with a voice thick with amazement and exultation if they’re ready for the last song of the night.

David grins as the first strains of  _Declaration_  fill the theatre, and he sings the lyrics at the top of his lungs, the heavy guitar riffs thumping through his feet and his heart pounding in time with the bass. Cook glances his way more than once, eyes dark, and by the end of the song David’s shouting with the rest of the audience, his fingertips tingling as Cook and the rest of the band shout out their last goodbyes to the audience before tumbling backstage.

Cook wraps his arms around David’s waist as soon as he reaches him, lifting him up and spinning him around, David’s startled laughter muffled by the flood of voices still filtering backstage from the theatre proper.

“I can’t believe you’re fucking here!” Cook nearly shouts, his voice loud to be heard over the din, and David can only clutch at Cook’s shoulders and laugh giddily into his ear, breathless. “Did you hear them out there? Holy shit, Archie, that was amazing!”

“ _You_  were amazing!” David shouts back, and leans down to swallow Cook’s giddy laughter with his lips; they’re both grinning too hard for it to be a proper kiss, but that doesn’t stop them from trying anyway.

“Get a room!” he hears someone call, probably Neal, and Cook shoots an inappropriate gesture over David’s shoulder before settling him back on the ground, an arm winding around his shoulder and pulling him flush along Cook’s side. His own arm slides into place along the small of Cook’s back, and it sates the shivery clench in his stomach to be able to touch Cook like this after so much time apart.

“What do you say?” he asks David, his eyes bright and happy, sweat shining on his forehead and in the hollow of his throat and the best thing David’s ever seen. He doesn’t even bother to ask if Cook would rather go out for food and drinks with the guys to work off the post-concert buzz; he just curls his hand over Cook’s side and follows him out to the waiting cars, because as much as he would love to catch up with Neal and Monty and the others, nothing sounds better than being alone with his boyfriend right about then.

 

 

The past year had been hectic for the both of them. After David’s tour had wrapped up he had spent a couple of weeks in Missouri, he and Cook playing tourist in between Cook’s studio and song-writing sessions. David had hated to leave; he’d grown accustomed to hanging out with the band during the day, following Cook to movie theatres and ballparks and restaurants, and falling asleep slumped on Cook’s couch or in his bed every night.

But he’d had things to take care of back home, and Cook needed to focus on his album, so they’d separated with mutual promises to keep in touch via Skype and text and late night phone calls, and Cook had sent him on a plane back to Los Angeles with a kiss that curled his toes and garnered more than a few stares from passerby.

The first thing David had done when he’d arrived home had been to schedule a meeting with his manager. He’d told Angie point blank that things were going to be different; all preparations for any more tours or appearances were to go directly through him, and though he would take her suggestions and opinions into account, if he wasn’t happy or comfortable with something, he wouldn’t do it. He wanted more say, more direct involvement with his life and his music, and if she felt the need to fight him on that, he would look for a new manager.

The resultant break from the media limelight had been good for him. He’d spent some time at home, penning lyrics in his spare time and catching up with friends in the area, including his former  _Idol_  contestants, Carly, Brooke, and Syesha meeting him one sunny spring afternoon for lunch at one of LA’s less well-known cafes.

They’d squealed in tandem when he told them about Cook, immediately demanding that he spill the whole story about their first meeting, and it was with bright eyes (and some enthusiastic hugs) that they’d told him they were happy for him, his former runner-up securing a promise that they would one day get to meet the up-and-coming rocker.

“It’s not official until you get the approval of your  _Idol_  family,” Syesha had playfully told him, and he’d laughed and shook his head fondly at the three women he’d grown closest too during that whirlwind of a competition.

He’d traveled to Utah not long after to finally tell his family about the events of the previous months, confessing with a heart heavy with both anticipation and hope that he had met an amazing person, and fallen in love.

His mother had been less upset about him dating a man and more cross that he’d kept it from her for so long. He’d spent more than a few nights in the kitchen with her, the two of them talking late into the night, and though she was withholding judgment until she actually met Cook, she had given them her acceptance and her support.

David had talked to Jeff later, not wanting to keep anything from his father either, and though he hadn’t exactly been thrilled by the prospect, and the conversation had died without much of a resolution, it had gone better than David had expected it to.

 

 

It was Kari who had suggested the book.

She’d told him it would be a low-pressure project; he could work on it at his own pace, and it would be a good follow up to _Chords of Strength_ , show the public how he’d matured and grown. He could talk in depth about his mission, and how his music had evolved over the years, and the more David thought about it the more the idea appealed to him. He had been so young when he’d worked on  _Chords_ , still struggling with who he was and what he wanted, and it would be nice to share the lessons he’d learned in the intervening years, and the experience he’d gained.

He would send Cook snippets every now and then, his boyfriend’s big vocabulary coming in handy more often than not, and though he never mentioned Cook by name, there were a few passages about someone he had met along the way, who had helped him to realize strengths he’d never known he had.

In return Cook sent him demos of songs, sometimes with the full backing of the band and others with just Cook’s voice, stripped down and low in his ear, and David would curl up in bed at night and play the tracks over and over, falling into sleep with the rough cadence of his boyfriend’s voice crooning love songs about avalanches and declarations in his ear.

Cook had taken a week off to fly out to L.A to visit David, and they had spent most of the time locked away in David’s apartment, shutting out the rest of the world and reacquainting themselves with each other, curled together on David’s couch watching movies or clustered together in the den, David on the piano and Cook slumped along his side, singing softly along to the music and mouthing the words against David’s skin.

It was during that time together that David had pulled Cook down onto his bed, pressing the older man’s palms to the warm skin of his stomach, and though his hands had been shaking and his heart had been racing, David’s voice hadn’t wavered when he’d asked Cook to make love to him.

It had been slow and exhilarating and a little terrifying all at once, but they’d been careful with each other, David new to the physical sensations Cook was coaxing out of his body and Cook endlessly aware of David’s every wince or moan, taking pains not to hurt him.

Afterwards they had wrapped themselves around each other, hot and sweaty and exhausted, and Cook’s breathless  _I love you’s_  had been the sweetest sound David had ever heard.

 

 

And now they’re here, the night of Cook’s first show of his self-appointed  _Declaration_  tour, and David’s grinning so hard his cheeks hurt, Cook’s fingers slip-sliding along his sides and under his arms, effortlessly picking out his most ticklish spots as he growls against David’s ear, all mock-outraged: “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me you were coming. I thought you were still out of town! So sneaky, Archuleta.”

“I – ahahaha! I told your manager!” David gasps out between giggles, rolling around on Cook’s hotel bed, trying to escape the rocker’s questing fingers.

Cook gasps. “You roped my manager into helping you with your dastardly deeds? For shame, Archie!”

David rolls onto his back, panting and sort of fluttering his eyelashes, feeling ridiculous but giggling at the look it puts on Cook’s face. “I, um. I had the best intentions in mind?” he says, biting his lip hopefully, and Cook groans, slumping forward onto David and forcing a choked laugh from the younger man’s throat.

“Ugh, Archie,” Cook moans piteously. “You’re only supposed to use those powers for good.”

“So me surprising you wasn’t good?” David runs his fingers through Cook’s hair, which has fallen free from the spikes he’d had it styled in, a combination of sweat and heat making the strands fall flat again. It’s actually kind of gross, but David could totally care less.

Cook lifts his head and shoots him a smoldering glance. “You surprising me was very good,” he says, and leans in to press their lips together.

David falls into the kiss with a pleased hum, parting his lips so Cook can tangle their tongues together, groaning at the familiar taste he’d missed so much. Within a few moments Cook pulls back with a wet pop, David groaning and trying to follow him, but all Cook does is stare at his face, a smile curling his lips, and David returns it with a slow, happy grin of his own.

“I did good, huh?” David whispers, and Cook laughs softly, running a callused fingertip down David’s cheek.

“You did good,” he agrees. A playful expression flits across his face. “In fact… “ Cook slides off of David and reaches for his hand, pulling the younger man to his feet. His hands immediately curve over David’s hips, fingertips pressing into the grooves of his spine, over his shirt. “Have I mentioned how happy I am that you’re here?”

David smiles, even as his heart thrums in time with the beat of Cook’s fingernails against the skin of his lower back. “I gathered as much,” he says a little breathlessly, pressing his fingers to Cook’s chest, his t-shirt soft and warm against David’s skin.

“Oh?” Cook shoots him a heated look before slowly falling to his knees, rubbing his palms along the outside of David’s thighs as he goes. “Because I was hoping I could prove it to you.”

His breath leaving him in a rough pant, David slides his fingers into Cook’s hair, his stomach squirming pleasantly at the self-satisfied smirk on Cook’s lips.

“Um,” he stutters, his grip tightening momentarily as Cook’s hands pull him closer. “I – that would be. Good.”

“Good?” Cook repeats, biting his lip; David nearly moans at the sight, nodding his head in lieu of using actual words. Seems his brain’s capacity for speech is lowering faster by the second.

“I really can’t believe you’re here, Arch,” Cook continues, and David’s hands migrate from Cook’s hair to his shoulders as the older man slides his palms upward, fingers slipping underneath David’s checkered shirt, raising it up past his hipbones, over his stomach. The cool air against his skin makes him shiver for the half-second it takes before Cook presses his mouth to the right of his bellybutton, and then it’s as if he were never cold at all, heat rushing through his limbs at a speed that leaves him flushed and panting.

“Missed you,” he manages to choke out, and gasps at the feel of Cook’s lips curving into a smile against his skin, his eyes slipping closed as Cook presses fleeting kisses to his stomach, the wet flick of his tongue wringing a cry from David’s throat.

“Missed you too, baby,” Cook mumbles, and David opens his eyes just in time to see Cook’s lips part against his bellybutton, his tongue tracing the contours of David’s stomach muscles, followed by the rough scrape of his teeth. David whines, his abdominals twitching, and Cook peers up at him through half-lidded eyes.

“Please… “ David doesn’t really know what he’s asking for, only that the sensations wracking his body are driving him crazy, hot and shivery and so  _good_ , but still not enough. “Please, Cook.”

He almost expects Cook to tease him, but it seems his boyfriend’s just as impatient for more as David is; he pulls back and reaches for David’s belt buckle, sliding the clasp loose with more finesse than David can attribute to himself, his own hands shaking as they run along Cook’s shoulders and through his hair, pulse pounding in his chest and further down, his burgeoning erection pushing almost painfully against the line of his zipper.

He whimpers as Cook makes quick work of his button and zip, a little embarrassed at the obvious bulge in his underwear, even more so by the way his fingers twitch where they’re buried in Cook’s hair, wanting to press himself forward, to once again feel Cook’s lips on his bare skin.

Cook doesn’t make him wait for long, his fingers curling around the waistband of David’s jeans, using the grip to pull David back to Cook’s mouth. He moans outright as Cook mouths at his cock through his briefs, his eyes squeezing closed at the dual sensation of heat and wetness and cloth moving over his flesh.

Cook’s hands aren’t idle; they pull at his jeans, bunching the material around his knees, sliding back up his naked thighs, beneath the hem of his boxers, moving back, and up, and –

“ _Oh_. Oh, Cook, please. “ David pushes at his waistband, wanting the material off, and Cook pulls back only long enough to yank the boxers down before wrapping his lips around the head of David’s cock, one hand curling around the base while the other moves back to cup David’s hip.

“So good, Archie. Missed you, missed  _this_.” Cook’s mumbling, pressing scattered kisses to the swollen head of David’s prick, and David had forgotten how mouthy Cook sometimes gets in bed; the words stoke the fire in his blood, they always have, and he whimpers as Cook continues, the hoarse, gritty sound of his voice sending sparks of flame licking up David’s spine. “Love the way you fucking taste, Arch. Goddamn, want to suck you all the time, get on my knees every time I fucking see you.“

David whines, curling forward, burying his fingers in Cook’s hair, running them wildly though the messy strands. “Oh gosh, oh gosh, oh gosh,” he mumbles, a litany of garbled exclamations as Cook runs his tongue along the shaft, tonguing the thick vein running along the side and pausing to lap teasingly at David’s slit, precome gushing wetly with each slick swipe of Cook’s tongue.

“Like that?” Cook strokes his hand slowly up David’s shaft, the swollen, purple head popping wetly through his fist, and David nods, desperate, choked noises falling from his lips like rain. He can’t  _think_ , can’t do anything but feel. “C’mon, David, that’s it.” Cook presses his lips against David’s twitching stomach muscles, noses along his damp pubic hair, breathes him in, and all the while he’s driving David closer to the edge with sure, steady strokes of his hand, until David can feel the tension building, feel the liquid heat pooling in his stomach, centering in his groin, and oh –  _oh_  —

“C-Cook,” he gasps out, pressing his forehead to the crown of Cook’s head, his fingers shaking, his thighs trembling with his oncoming release. “I’m going to – gonna – “ He breaks off with a wet gasp, because Cook’s heeded his warning not by pulling away but by sucking David back into the heat of his mouth, tongue swirling around his swollen cockhead and David’s coming in warm, wet spurts down Cook’s throat, crying out in thick, sobbing breaths as Cook swallows around him, his tongue lapping away at the excess until David is shivering, soft and spent in his mouth.

Cook’s hands are the only thing keeping him upright; they slide over his thighs and hips, and as Cook climbs a little unsteadily to his feet they wrap around David’s waist and pull him against the steady pillar of Cook’s body.

It takes a moment for David’s trembling to subside; he’s always hypersensitive in the aftermath, the drag of Cook’s skin against his almost too much stimulation for him to bear. He lets out a ragged breath as Cook tilts his face up and presses a soft kiss to his forehead, his vision hazy as he stares at the older man.

“You okay, David?” Cook asks, and oh gosh, his voice is hoarse and wrecked, his lips red and swollen and  _wet_  from being wrapped around David’s cock, and David wraps his arms around Cook’s neck, leaning up so he can kiss him, long and deep. Cook groans against his mouth, the sound vibrating down the length of David’s spine, and David needs Cook to be naked  _yesterday_.

“Clothes,” he mumbles taking a slightly unsteady step back, until the back of his knees hit the bed. “Off, Cook. Please.”

“Fuck,” Cook breathes out harshly, his big hands spanning the width of David’s back, gripping fistfuls of David’s shirt. He pulls back, breaking David’s hold on his neck, and starts yanking at his clothes, tossing his jacket to the floor, twisting his fingers in the hem of his t-shirt and pulling it up and over his head.

David pushes his pants and underwear, still crumpled around his knees, to the floor, kicking them away to tangle with the growing pile of Cook’s clothes. He slides his shirt over his head, Cook’s necklace falling back to rest against his bare throat, just in time to watch Cook push his own jeans down his thighs, leaving him in only his boxers, which do absolutely nothing to hide the state he’s in.

Saliva floods David’s mouth as he stares at his boyfriend, bare except for that one scrap of clothing, the tattoos along his chest and arms standing out starkly in the low light provided by the bedside lamp. David can’t stop  _staring_ , at Cook’s broad shoulders, the dusting of hair on his chest and below his navel, strands of red-gold disappearing into the waistband of his shorts, the curve of his stomach, the way the muscles in his arms flex as he clenches his fists –

He wraps his hands around Cook’s forearms and reclines back on the bed, Cook settling on top of him, pressing his palms to the sheets on either side of David’s head.

“You’re gorgeous,” David murmurs, his fingers warm against Cook’s chest, and it’s a testament to the strength of his desire that he doesn’t even blush at the words.

Cook curls his fingers in the links of his necklace, the star-and-handcuffs resting in the damp hollow of David’s throat, and says, “Think that’s my line, Archie,” before catching David’s lips in a kiss that curls his toes against the lush sheets.

“Gonna make you feel so good,” he continues, his lips skimming along David’s chin and down his throat, and David wants to laugh, because didn’t Cook just finish doing exactly that? But the words stick in his throat as Cook’s mouth settles over his nipple, tonguing the nub until it’s hard and hot and aching, and David whines as Cook shifts to the other one, trying to cant his hips so he can rub against the hardness pressed against his thigh, his own cock twitching in interest as Cook continues his ministrations against David’s heaving chest.

He wraps his arms around Cook’s neck, arching his back and whimpering Cook’s name, lifting his legs until he can fit his heels against the small of Cook’s back, pushing at the waistband of his boxers until they slide down Cook’s hips. The press of Cook’s bare cock against his makes him cry out, and Cook rears up with a groan, pressing a bruising kiss to David’s lips as he starts to rut shallowly against him.

“God, David.” Cook’s voice sounds absolutely wrecked; he’s bracing his forearms on the sheets by David’s head, mouthing at the damp line of his throat as he thrusts against him. David’s legs are wrapped tightly around Cook’s waist, his heels pressed to Cook’s ass, and the fact that Cook’s boxers are just pushed down out of the way instead of off, the elastic caught around his thighs, stokes a fire in David’s blood that has him arching wantonly, leaning up to catch Cook’s lips with his own, dipping his tongue into Cook’s open, panting mouth.

He can feel Cook’s thrusts turning erratic, copious amounts of precome from the both of them slicking the way, the wet clap of skin on skin echoing faintly in David’s ears, and he raises his hips, Cook’s stomach dragging over the sensitive head of his cock, until he can feel Cook’s hot, wet prick sliding against the tight space behind his balls, and  _oh_ , it’s so good, and Cook’s hands sliding down to grab his ass, spreading him, opening him up to Cook’s thrusts, feels even better.

They’re both so close now, it won’t take much to send them hurtling over that edge together. David curls his hand around the back of Cook’s neck, pressing close-mouthed kisses to his fluttering eyelids, his flushed cheeks, his open mouth.

“C’mon, Cook,” he croons sweetly, feeling the familiar ache in his groin, the onrush of release. “Love you, come on, come for me, okay?”

Cook breathes out harshly, almost like a sob, and David feels him jerk against his skin, feels the hot gush of Cook’s release against his ass and the sheets below. A few rough strokes of Cook’s hand has David following suit, throwing his head back as he comes, loudly and messily, spurts of semen hitting Cook’s stomach and chest, their bellies sticky when Cook slumps forward onto him, pressing their bodies together as they struggle to catch their breath.

“Jesus Christ, Archuleta,” Cook gasps wetly against his throat. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

David giggles breathlessly, nudging Cook’s rounded backside with his foot. “Afraid you can’t keep up?” he asks, smirking as Cook raises his head and shoots David a look of wonder.

“You are learning entirely too much from me,” he breathes, and David chokes on a gasp as Cook’s fingers skitter along the inside of his thighs, up along his sides and under his arms in quick succession. They roll on the bed, their skin sticking wetly, David’s laughter and Cook’s triumphant, “You should learn to show some respect, Archie, or face the consequences!” loud and exuberant in David’s ears.

Eventually the need for a shower urges them out of bed; David falls to his knees in the slightly cramped shower stall, pressing sucking kisses to Cook’s navel and inner thighs before swallowing his cock, Cook’s callused fingers clenched in his thick, dark hair, and later, after they’ve trailed gentle fingers along each other’s skin and washed the sweat and come away, they fall naked and tangled onto clean sheets.

“How long can you stay?” Cook asks, his fingers running through David’s hair, David’s head resting on his chest, his hand moving lazily over Cook’s stomach, skimming through the coarse curls below his navel.

“Kari sent my manuscript off to the publishers,” he says sleepily. “It’ll take a few weeks for them to get back to me, and I told Angie I would need at least a week or two of no public appearances so I could follow a certain rockstar around on tour.”

Cook laughs, pressing a rough kiss to David’s damp hair. “Does that mean you’re going to willingly live on a bus with Neal and the rest of the guys? Because I’m not entirely sure you know what that entails, Arch.”

“Hush,” David giggles, closing his eyes as he breathes in the mingled scents of hotel soap, Cook’s aftershave, and the faint trace of sex and sweat still clinging to the cool air. “I can take just about anything, if it means I get to be with you.”

He doesn’t see it, but David can picture the smile on Cook’s face, faint and tremulous like he’s holding back tears, and he falls asleep to Cook’s breath fanning his hair, the older man’s sleep-soft voice rumbling a faint goodnight against his ear.

**Author's Note:**

> There is a playlist attached to this fic! If anyone's interested in checking it out, click [here](http://abovetheruins.tumblr.com/post/115213091310/theres-no-turning-back)!


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